


The Worry Woman

by daroh, EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Advice, Disguise, F/M, Flirting, M/M, Magic Revealed, Mild (Era-Appropriate) Sexism, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Redemption?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana may have sided against Camelot, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss the sweetbread. A nostalgia-induced scheme brings her to Camelot, where she disguises herself as a therapist of sorts in the lower town. She hopes to hear visitors’ useful confessions—dissent in the knights’ ranks, military weaknesses, royal secrets, a hidden trapdoor into the throne room—but what she gets instead are personal revelations, both tedious and absurd. Between the frequent visits from Merlin, Gwen, and every other nervous talker in town, and the impromptu visits from a very suspicious Gwaine, her patience (and her magic) is sorely tested. When Arthur starts visiting, though, the stakes of her mission change, and she finds that being the Worry Woman gives her more power over her brother than she could ever have dreamed of, as well as a few possibilities it never even occurred to her to consider.</p>
<p>(<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2263086">Art</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/texasfandoodler/pseuds/texasfandoodler">texasfandoodler</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [texasfandoodler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/texasfandoodler/gifts).



> A/Ns: This story was written for the After Camlann Big Bang challenge, with [texasfandoodler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/texasfandoodler/pseuds/texasfandoodler) as our amazing artist.
> 
> Quick note from Peach: Hi, all, Peach here. I'm leaving the posting malarkey up to D, my poor defenceless co-writer for this thing. The idea is hers, so the execution should be too. She'll tell you I did all the writing, because she's a lying liar (yep, one of those ones who lies, I'm sure you've heard of them). In truth, we've written over each other's sentences so many times we're forgetting who wrote what to begin with, and not once has she complained about me stealing all the most fun scenes or my insistence on writing with a lack of linearity that would make Stephen Moffat proud. Both she and our fantabulous beta [Marly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marly580) have tried their hardest to trample out all my non-words, as well as attempt to explain things like dependent clauses and Oxford commas to my tiny brain. I ignore them, but it's totally not their fault. As for [texasfandoodler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/texasfandoodler/pseuds/texasfandoodler), who did the truly awesome [art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2263086), I really have no idea how to express my amazement and admiration.
> 
> And from daroh/yesimafan: Indeed, Peach was the real writer here and did the lion’s share of the work. This story idea hatched years ago, and it never would have seen the light of day, much less the likes of a Big Bang and a pairing with the amazing texasfandoodler, if it weren’t for her enthusiasm and talents. Thank you so much, dear! An enormous thank you, too, to texasfandoodler, who created gorgeous art, even when we were being unhelpful! She is an incredible artist that I have been drooling over for ages and am really grateful to collab with! Thank you, too, to our gracious and super-brilliant beta [Marly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marly580), who dealt with our nonlinearity as if it were nothing. And [Detochkina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina)\--always the best cheerleader there is! Thank you so much for all your support and the pre-read. And [skitz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom), for the emails that make my days! And thanks to the mods and to any and all who read and check out the awesome art. xo

It is a long time since Morgana last brushed her hair, dragged out the knots and had it pour silken and soft down her back.

At first, when Morgause took her from Camelot after Merlin poisoned her, she missed it, missed evenings sitting in her room, Gwen sweeping a brush through her hair and chattering away about everything and nothing. She missed Gwen and Arthur and Merlin the traitor, even missed Uther a little; she missed adventures and arguments and sleeping in an actual bed, waking up to warm water and clean clothing every single day; she missed her horse and Gaius and the scent of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread drifting up from the kitchens, the smoky smell of extinguished candles and Gwen's soft murmur of, "Sleep well, my lady."

In short, Morgana missed pretty much everything for a while.

That faded, of course; once free of Camelot, she was able to realise truly how much it imprisoned her, how much it stole from her and every other citizen. Her parents first, followed shortly by her freedom and her choices, her opinions and her power to speak them. Her life, if Uther had ever learnt what she was, or if Merlin had had his way. Camelot took it all, would have taken everything, and even as she hates Merlin still for his attempt on her life, Morgana can't help but be grateful to him for setting her free; leaving the city has not only saved her life but also her heart, mind and soul.

Now, though, it is time to take back the throne that ought to be hers, and the freedom of not having to care about her appearance is something she'll willingly sacrifice to her plan for ridding her queendom of the Pendragons once and for all.

X

And so, Morgana fights the tangles from her hair, washes away the grime from days without hot water and foraging for herbs and not-quite-herbs, and begins her spell.

The ingredients aren't all pleasant – a number of them are nothing short of disgusting, but no self-respecting sorceress could ever admit as much aloud – but they are all necessary, and Morgana can deal with a little unpleasantness in order to get her home and her birthright back.

The first layer of the spell is the simplest, a basic glamour accompanied by a standard holding potion, and if she pinches her nose, pretends very hard, and drinks it very quickly, she can almost convince herself it's tea. After that, though, the foulness of the potions seems to increase, hand in hand with the complexities of the spells, until Morgana actually thinks of giving up; no throne can be worth drinking things with the flavour and consistency of frogspawn, no future can justify her skin being flayed from her bones, her insides becoming her outsides, her whole being left as nothing more than oozing, ugly flesh.

She thinks of giving up, but eventually she feels a kind of transparency settle into her skin, and she knows that she will be viewed by whomever she encounters as the most trustworthy woman they've ever seen. The details will be different for everyone – hence the need for the special spell that invites confidence, instills trust – but her looks will be solidly founded in an aspect of maternal concern, discretion, and wisdom. She can be trusted with secrets, and she gives only the best advice possible. She is the Worry Woman.

" _Cassandra_ ," Morgana says with a laugh, and dons a shawl, heading out on her journey to Camelot.

X

Along the way, Morgana tries out her spell's effects on any fellow travelers she meets, and without fail, they each tell her their darkest secrets. She doles out advice – both good and bad – to test how much they will listen to her. All of them do. Her confidence in her well-planned ruse is high as she enters Camelot’s lower town and begins scouting a location for her Worry Woman's tent.

Before long, she decides that a deliciously appropriate place would be near _The Rising Sun_ , since knights coming out of the tavern would likely welcome an ear for their troubles. Perhaps they will complain about their training, or the latest defense plans the king is drawing up, or when the best time is to catch him away from the castle and minimally guarded. Much could be learnt as “Cassandra,” who only cares about her clients and their troubles, and so be it if it means Morgana will have to listen to some petty gripes and lovers' nonsense in the midst of strategic, actionable information. Morgause would be proud of how well this was going to work, will be proud when Morgana goes to her with the results of the whole charade.

X

The tent appears sometime between Gwaine entering The Sun at nightfall and him leaving it shortly after the nightly change of the guard. He's not on duty tonight, has enough respect for Arthur (well, for Merlin, at least, which sort of equates to the same thing) that he wouldn't be drinking if he was, which makes it really not his problem if someone seems to have decided on camping in a mildly dodgy area.

That said, there's nothing to stop him poking around, particularly when he gets close enough to see a sign planted in the ground outside, the writing on it making it pretty clear that whoever is staying here, they're not just there for a holiday.

_Tell Your Worries to the Worry Woman_ , the sign reads. _Confidential Listening and Good Advice Guaranteed_.

"'The Worry Woman,' eh?" he muses, poking at the sign just in case there's something funny about it, a well-chewed toothpick in his mouth. "Let's see what she's got to worry about."

He approaches the tent, readying his best grin, and says in a loud voice, "Knock, knock!"

X

Morgana wasn't expecting a client so soon, hence why she waited until after dark to set up, but since they're – he, judging by the voice – here, she might as well get started.

"Come in, please," she calls, casting a final glance around to make sure everything's in place, then turning her best, most professional smile on her guest.

A surge of hope shoots through her body when one of Arthur's own knights – Gwaine, of all people, an unconscionable gossip and utter lout, as far as she can recall – walks into her tent. She's a little nervous, too; for all that Sir Gwaine is cocky and irreverent, he can be very difficult to fool. With a street fighter's instincts, a knight's training, and enough charm to lull the most vigilant opponent off her guard, Morgana has to be careful, but she could learn much, too. She has no doubt that Gwaine knows a lot – not only as part of Arthur's inner circle, but as one of Merlin's closest friends – and she's certain that Merlin knows everything Arthur does – as well as the sort of gossip Gwen used to bring to Morgana, overheard from the other servants.

For a first visitor, she could have asked for none better in terms of potential information, aside from Merlin or Arthur himself, and with Gwaine there's considerably less risk of being recognised, should her disguise fail her.

"Waiting for an appointment, m'lady?" the knight says, his smile easy but his eyes interrogating.

"Only with you, good knight," Morgana answers, focusing extra energy into the spell of her disguise, just in case. "People come to me with their worries when they feel they need to, and your feet have brought you to my tent now. Welcome, and do sit down."

"Me? Worry? I guess my reputation hasn't preceded me. That's pretty unusual, actually. Where do you come to us from, anyway?"

Morgana's lips quirk, then form the most pleasant smile she can offer to a man of Camelot. "From a good distance, Sir Knight, and I only speak to those who come to me. Now, then, I am Cassandra. Might I have the pleasure of your name?"

"I’d like you to keep calling me _Sir Knight_ , but I have a feeling you'll know who I am before too many clients come your way." Gwaine's refusal to provide even the simplest information is more than irritating, and not a very auspicious start to Cassandra's career.

"I'm beginning to think I will," she answers, no longer fighting to keep the smile on her face; it feels good to push back against Gwaine's insolence, however bad it may be for business. "Perhaps, since you seem disinclined to share your concerns with me, you might be good enough to allow me some rest. I've had a long journey, and I should think I'll be seeing plenty of people who are genuinely in need of advice tomorrow, rather than someone who's here just to amuse himself."

" _Au contraire_ , my good woman; I'm here to welcome you, but perhaps I should come back another time, after you've had a chance to settle in. I'll be at _The Rising Sun_ at midday tomorrow, if you find yourself in need of lunch."

"Anything you recommend there?"

"Aye, but I'm not sure you'd like it. I always drink my lunch," he says with a wink. He bows slightly and offers an infuriating, "M'lady," on his way out of the tent.

X

Gwaine's visit leaves Morgana much more anxious and angry than she feels it merits, and this only increases her irritation: not only was he presumptuous, nosy, and uncooperative, he hadn’t given her a single clue as to how she had appeared to him. The spell makes it such that she seems different in everyone's eyes, depending on what kind of confidante they most wish to see. And Gwaine… Did he see her as a mother figure? A hag? A young woman? Surely as a fraud, but that's all right; as something of a swindler himself, her own dishonesty is not likely to be too much of a deterrent and, even if it is, she has enough truth-telling spells to ensure that the majority of her clients will be convinced of her ability to take worries away, simply by listening and giving sound advice.

Still, she needs to be in control, and Gwaine's brief visit has stolen that sense from her before she's even had the chance to settle in. Her glamour worked well enough on the way to the lower town, giving her confidence, but she now feels more like the uncertain king's ward she had been before Morgause had whisked her away, saving her life and her sanity. A solid night of sleep will see her right, she hopes, and then tomorrow… She's half-tempted to start round two of a sparring match with Gwaine at the tavern, but reminds herself how much she's grown since those days, how she doesn't need the ridiculous banter and teasing she used to share with her brother and the others, or the warmth of the hearth and the mead at The Rising Sun.

She readies herself for bed, resurrecting the peace Gwaine's insolence had done away with, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow, a more amenable client would find his or her way into her tent.

X

Merlin's legs carry him with brisk, angry strides through most of the lower town, though he can't say he has any real destination in mind; he just needs to get out of the castle before he finds himself executed for throwing both Arthur's breakfast and the most insubordinate fit Camelot has ever seen.

_Do this, Merlin; do that, Merlin! Muck out the stables and polish my armour and take a beating during training – oh, no, Merlin, not just from me, but from the rest of my knights as well – then wash my clothes and fetch my dinner and clean my chambers._ Then, when he finally finds a second to himself, it's Gaius saying, _Oh, having a lazy day, are we? Well, you can get medicine to everyone in the kingdom and fetch me herbs no one's seen since before Kilgharrah was born, and then explain to me why the leech tank looks more like a mud swamp._

_If I don't get any respect for all the work I do for this kingdom,_ Merlin thinks, _not only as a servant for two people who seem to think I'm made of nothing but time, but also as a bloody sorcerer – a secret sorcerer! – then I'm at least going to steal some time for myself. If I'm always accused of hanging about the tavern anyway, maybe I should go there. Maybe Gwaine's right, and a drink is all I need to take the edge off my nerves from all these chores and orders._

As Merlin's stride carries him swiftly towards the tavern with newfound purpose, he can't help but notice the tent pitched just next to it. "'Tell Your Worries to the Worry Woman'?" Merlin muses aloud, stopping in front of the sign, his hands on his hips. He feels strangely drawn to the idea of unloading his troubles on a stranger, and the tent itself seems to radiate its welcome. He walks towards it, and his mind begins to ease even as he parts the heavy curtain of the entryway, stepping inside.

He's greeted by a woman who reminds him strongly of his mother, and the warm glow of the sun seeping through the red curtains and illuminating the wooden table gives the room an even homier feel; Merlin can't help but plop himself down on the bench opposite the woman with the kind face and dark hair, taking in the surrealness of her appearance. She seems so familiar to him, so inviting, so much like his mother or perhaps someone else close to him – an aunt? An older sister he never knew about? – but he can't place it. He feels comforted, though, just by the sense of her being kin, even if she really is a stranger. So much the better, in fact. A broad smile crosses his face with unthought relief.

"Hello," the woman says. "I see you've found your way to The Worry Woman today."

"Seems I have," Merlin says, still smiling as he scans his surroundings, noting the details of the tent's contents – a small cot at the back, a few trinkets on a side table, a jug of water and a cup set on top of a trunk. Despite these signs of a traveller's quarters, he feels as though he's in his mother's kitchen, safe and well-cared for, _home_.

"That's a wonderful smile to greet me with, especially as I've only just arrived," the woman says, "but I don't think happiness is what's brought you here."

"No, it's not," Merlin says, shaking off a bit of his daze. "I wasn't really on my way here at all, actually, but your sign just sort of appeared, and I couldn't help but come in."

X

"I couldn't help but come in," Merlin says, still smiling like merely being in her presence is the best thing that's ever happened to him, though Morgana knows enough about him now not to relax in his presence, even for a second. Even so, she couldn't have hoped for a better reaction, or for a better man to walk into her tent; however unhelpful Gwaine was last night, Merlin being here will more than make up for it.

"And I am glad you did," Morgana says, just a little extra push to it, hopefully enough to make him addicted to talking to her before he's even begun. "I'm Cassandra," she says, and holds out her hand for a greeting. She knows physical touch can increase the effects of her spell, and the more she can make an open book of Merlin, the better this whole enterprise will go.

He takes her hand in both of his with genuine pleasure and shakes it, all joyous greeting, saying, "I'm Merlin." His effortless charm is enough to make anyone smitten, but Morgana is not just anyone, and she knows how far he is from innocent. He tried to kill her once, after all, and yet he lives with that knowledge, with his betrayal, lives with it and smiles at her like this.

Morgana cannot risk dwelling on her anger and thirst for revenge while he is in her company, though, so she tries to seem as disarmed by his deeply dimpled smile as she should be. It turns out to be remarkably easy. After all, this is Merlin, big-eared, neckerchiefed, bumbling but fiercely loyal Merlin, with a smile that could stop whole armies in their tracks, much less one woman out on her own.

"Merlin, what a pleasure to meet you. I can tell already what a good soul you are, but there must be worries weighing you down if you are here, after all."

"Everyone has worries," Merlin says, suddenly sounding sheepish. "I was thinking I'd feel better after a drink with a friend of mine – Gwaine – at the tavern. That's where I was heading, before I came in here."

Morgana huffs at the idea of Merlin seeking relief from his stresses by drinking with Gwaine. Returning to Arthur drunk as a lord (if he can even make it back to the castle) is no way to make his life easier. Surely even Merlin can see that, but perhaps Morgana gives him more credit than she should; he is friends with Gwaine, after all, and like a devoted puppy in the way he follows Arthur around, even into battle, without so much as a penknife with which to defend himself.

"Is that how you usually ease your mind?" she asks, wondering if what she used to take for general clumsiness is actually rather more alcohol induced.

"No. To tell you the truth, Cassandra," Merlin says, squinting his eyes and leaning across the table, as if he's already imparting closely guarded secrets, "I'm not much for holding my drink."

"You don't say," Morgana responds. "And why would today be different? Have you been given a day off by your employer?"

Merlin laughs at that heartily, shaking his head. "By who, Arthur? He's never even heard of a day off, unless it's for himself when he's meant to be doing some royal nonsense."

"Royal nonsense?" Morgana says, meaning to encourage further explanations from Merlin so she can speak more openly about his life: the greatest danger, now that it's clear he doesn't recognise her, is that she reveals herself by knowing something he has yet to tell her.

"Oh – I don't mean it's nonsense. I mean…" Merlin pauses, clearly far less willing to disrespect Arthur to a stranger than he is to his face. "I mean things he considers less important than training for battle, or something."

"I see. Is this Arthur part of what worries you, Merlin? You seem rather on edge, I must say. You can trust me. I have a gift for keeping confidences and for understanding problems better than anyone. I can help, truly, and it is my greatest wish to do so. You need not worry about my telling your Arthur about anything you say here – him or anyone else."

"' _My_ Arthur'?" Merlin chokes out. "He's not ' _my_ Arthur'-"

"Of course not," Morgana says, pouting her lip just enough to seem put out by having upset him. "I only meant that he is one of the sources of your worries."

"You can say that again," Merlin agrees, calming down almost instantly. "He works me to the bone, even inventing chores just for the fun of seeing me utterly drowning in humiliating tasks. Then he chides me in front of all the knights for having no energy to be a moving target for crossbow practice. He's impossible! And he does all this with a smile on his face, as if it's his life's greatest pleasure to see me do three times the work of any other servant."

"He sounds like a cruel master indeed," Morgana says, conjuring more sympathy than she thought herself capable of – for Merlin, anyway – in her voice.

"Oh, no – he's not cruel. Not at all. Arthur is just and good and would never be willfully cruel to anyone."

"But you just said—"

"I know, but he's different with me. And I deserve a lot of the extra work. I'm pretty insubordinate."

"Surely the great Arthur can't be threatened by someone like you, though, right? You must see that you deserve better treatment. Everyone does." _Everyone but Arthur_ , she thinks, liking this new fuel to her anger in hearing how dreadful he is to the servants, though she does recall Merlin being rather burdened by tasks when she used to live in the castle.

"He's not threatened by me. It's different. It's like…" Merlin's words trail into silence, and Morgana allows it for a moment. He looks confused, lost in thoughts just as incomplete as his sentence was, and it is both delightful to watch and an excellent opportunity.

"Is it as if he wants you to do more than what a typical servant would?"

"Yes, that's exactly it," Merlin says, perking up.

"Things that might endanger you, even in the eyes of the king himself?"

"Yes, that's it precisely. And I want to do these things for him, I do."

"Of course you do," Morgana says, eagerly awaiting a confession of Merlin's most secret tasks. What could they be? Stealing maps from Geoffrey's records? Ingratiating himself with the servants of visiting royalty to learn their weaknesses? She’s quite sure Arthur will begin planning the expansion of his kingdom before it’s even officially his, and he’ll only be able to do so with someone's help. Now, though, Morgana has the chance to stop these plans before they get any further than Merlin's intention to give Arthur whatever he wants, if this all goes her way.

"You're very loyal, Merlin. I can tell that about you. But you can't risk your own safety for Arthur's ambitions."

"I don't really mind about my safety. And it's not Arthur's ambition. To tell you the truth, I think he’s concerned with having fewer ambitions than—" Merlin cuts himself off, clearly feeling guilty for giving away one of Arthur's worries instead of sticking to his own.

"Less of that than what?" Morgana asks, trying not to hold her breath.

"Oh, he's ambitious, like you said. I just meant that the ways that I'm not a typical servant, they're ways that I want. In fact, I want even more than that; I want him to ask me to do more. But he's too proud, and too blind, and too prattish, and too bloody moral. He would never ask. Besides, if he did, that would only introduce a whole series of other problems."

Morgana's brow furrows in annoyance as she parses what she's hearing, trying to make sense of Merlin's incoherence.

"You want to do more for Arthur than you already do?"

Merlin nods guiltily, a blush burning across his face.

"These things you want, they don't involve ordinary servants' chores, or even anything to do with the knights or the kingdom, do they?"

Merlin shakes his head, then lets his forehead fall to the table. "I didn't mean to tell this to anyone, and certainly not today!" he says into the wood. "I was meant to get pissed with Gwaine at the tavern. I thought I could shake off my frustrations, and go back to my duties."

"But this will help you, Merlin," Morgana says, resigning herself to the fact that this visit from Merlin is going to be devoted solely to his inane crush on the arsehole prince, which she was perfectly aware of already – how could anyone who has seen the pair of them together not be? "You need to talk."

Merlin lifts his head. "I suppose the damage is done," he says. "It's just that he relies on me so much, and it makes us close. I mean, I'm always at his side. But it makes me sort of crazy, too, and then I don't trust myself. And if I ever broached the subject, I might be thrown in the stocks or sentenced to death or who knows what! Whatever it was, it would involve being cast out of Arthur's service, and I can't let that happen, for lots of reasons. Destiny the most of all."

_Oh, this is getting dramatic_ ,Morgana thinks. _It's time I was getting a drink at the tavern myself after listening to all this. Time to end session one with this lovesick servant boy_.

"You're clearly very close to him, Merlin," she says, "and that closeness evidently means a lot to you. I think you are right that you can't risk losing that. Keep your feelings secret another few days, and then come tell me how things are going. As we talk, you will feel better and see a new way to go about your role without feeling so much frustration and worry. Trust me." She puts every ounce of caring and trust-inducing magic into her words, and hopes her underlying now get out comes across just as clearly. This Worry Woman business might have to be limited to short sessions. Small doses of trivial worries, or else she fears she'll magic every whiner's mouth shut and kick them from her tent.

"That sounds wise, Cassandra. Thank you," Merlin says, and he stands to take his leave promptly. He halts mid-turn though, with a new worry written on his face. "Oh, forgive me – I've not paid you for your time!"

"How thoughtful, Merlin. You need not pay, though. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and it will be payment enough to see you again."

"But there must be something I can give you. Do you need any supplies?"

"Now that you mention it, I would love to taste some of the sweetbread Camelot's cooks are so famous for. That is, if it's no trouble. If you work in the castle, I thought maybe it wouldn't be. Trouble, that is."

Merlin grins, and Morgana recalls Gwen telling her how much pride he takes in his food-swiping abilities; clearly, he likes the thought of taking some of Arthur's breakfast treats as much as Morgana looks forward to receiving them.

"No trouble at all," he says, and he leaves wearing the same smile he had on when he came in.

X

Oddly enough, it seems Merlin is not the only one harbouring secret affections for her half-brother: by lunchtime, no fewer than three curious castle maids, one farmer's wife, and the daughter of the lower town's best butcher have stopped by her tent. Far from spilling anything useful, however, all they have done is confess to an overwhelming fondness for the king-to-be, not to mention the hope that, since Arthur's fondness for Gwen shows he clearly has little concern for finding a woman of a more appropriate station, they may stand a chance.

Gwaine sticks his head into her tent shortly after midday – later than she was expecting, but it seems Arthur has been pushing his men harder than he used to, in the days when Camelot was her home and she his ally – a broad grin on his face.

"Fancy that lunch I mentioned?" he asks, completely ignoring the fact that the butcher's daughter is still sitting opposite her, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Perhaps some other time," Morgana answers, nodding discreetly at the girl. "I'm a little occupied right now."

"Sure thing, love," he says with a smirk. "I'll see you around. Chin up, Anna."

This last seems to be directed at the butcher's daughter, who, rather than taking heart at his words, only sobs harder.

"There, there," Morgana says, patting her shoulder, then sitting helpless as the girl collapses against her, face buried in her shoulder. "Hush, Anna, I'm sure it'll all be okay."

Gods, does she wish she could have said yes to Gwaine's offer of a liquid lunch.

X

The next day, the lower town springs to life early. Morgana isn't used to a morning routine, and her sleep has never been restful, so she's less fortified with her disguise, her spells, and her ruthlessness than she wishes to be. A few more hours of sleep would do her good, but her dreams of the comforts of the castle – her large, canopied bed; Gwen brushing her hair and sharing castle gossip; the softness of her gowns and of Gwen's voice – keep being overshadowed by visions of violence, the feeling of a sword slicing through her own chest. She is tortured into consciousness, and she wakes, just managing to stifle a scream.

She rises and slowly tidies herself, listening to the hum of the town setting about its day. She is not sure what she thinks of it, but she listens closely, somewhat soothed. She works her hair into a loose, low braid, and the action reminds her of Gwen again. The nostalgic warmth of the memory is irritating, and she pushes it out of her mind, steeling herself for a day of familiar faces seeing her as a stranger.

She steps from her tent, tying back the curtains that shield her from the world, hoping today will involve fewer crying women and more useful secrets.

X

"Please," Merlin says, desperate. "Please, I need it."

"I'm sorry, Merlin," Cook says, sounding about as unapologetic as anyone Merlin has ever heard. "Sadly, sweetbread is not on offer today."

"Tomorrow?"

"Thursday," Cook counters. "I'm sure his highness will understand."

"Have you _met_ Arthur?" Merlin asks, since playing along with her assumption that the bread is for Arthur is more likely to get him some than telling the truth. "He's not really the understanding type, is he?"

"I’m sorry, Merlin," she repeats, adding a remarkably smug grin to her unapologetic tone, then gives up on the pretence all together. "Now, get the hell out of my kitchen."

Merlin smiles meekly, and then turns on his heel and hurries out.

She looks even more smug when he comes back two minutes later for Arthur's breakfast tray.

X

"You're late, Merlin," Arthur drawls, more from habit than anything else; after this long, he doesn't really expect pointing out Merlin's absolute absence of punctuality to change anything.

"I had a little disagreement with Cook," Merlin explains, placing Arthur's breakfast on the table.

" _Again?_ " Arthur asks.

Merlin shrugs, offers Arthur the smile that makes him want to forgive anything and everything Merlin has or conceivably could do wrong, then ducks the cushion Arthur lobs at his head.

X

“But what I don’t understand is why none of the knights wants me as a personal servant. No one is better trained or more well-mannered than me. I have never had one complaint against me in all my years of service in the castle, and yet I am always being assigned different duties. Why, I should be manservant to the prince himself – or better yet, to the king!”

“I'm going to be honest with you, George,” Cassandra says, slumping in her seat, her elbows on the table, and George suspects that if he were to look under the table between them, her legs would not be crossed in a properly ladylike fashion, either. “Your complaints don’t make you seem like such a model servant. You seem rather disgruntled, actually.”

“Well, I’m—” George cuts himself short, realising he’s answering hastily and perhaps unwisely. The woman seems to have entirely missed his point, however, and George cannot let that lie. He has been overlooked too long, and this woman claims to be able to help. “I’m merely seeking advice on how to better my position in the king’s service. Isn’t that what you do? Give advice?”

She nods, looking brutally unimpressed, and George is forcibly reminded of the time the king banished him from his presence during an overrunning council meeting. The look in her eyes is just as unreasonable as Uther's was after George reminded him discreetly of the need to keep taking the medicinal draught Gaius prescribed him. From the uproar the king made, anyone would think he enjoyed suffering from a delicate nether ailment.

"Again, George, I'm going to be honest with you," Cassandra says, in a tone that more than matches her expression. “It sounds like you are less here for help than you are to vent your frustrations to me. You likely know what the proper advice for you is, anyway.”

“I beg your pardon?” George asks, unsure whether to be offended or grateful that she seems about to help him.

“Common sense, George. The answer is common sense.”

“Do you mean I should be able to figure out what to do?”

“Meaning _common sense_ – it’s what you don’t have, and there’s no gaining some now. Your best hope is just to try not to be such a bore, and, when you’re not being a bore, you can try _being less irritating_.” She crosses her arms on the table in front of her, then lets her head fall onto them. She does not look up.

George struggles to find the correct expression to show in reaction, then settles his face when it occurs to him that she is doing him the courtesy of not requiring an answer from him. He sits, waiting, for several moments, figuring the mood will pass and then she will proceed to give him some advice that might actually help with his concerns.

Cassandra exhales with force, her hands clenching into fists.

“ _Leeeeaave_ ,” she groans from deep in her chest. George sits, perplexed by her outburst, until she finally looks up. The fiery blue of her eyes seems to burn right through him, and he runs out of the tent as if from a barrage of lighted arrows .

X

Merlin watching the end of a training session is nothing out of the ordinary, but Merlin pacing behind the weapons bench while he waits for the end of the training session is. Usually, if he’s there at all, he’s slouched in the shade somewhere, trying to catch a rare wink or two of sleep, and Gwaine wonders what’s got his friend on edge, particularly since – for once – it's not the pratty prince he keeps casting his gaze at.

When Arthur seems to have finally worked every drop of sweat out of his own body by sparring in long bouts with each and every knight, one after another, wearing himself out, he calls an end to the session. Lately Arthur has been driving his knights so hard that Leon fears they’ll lack the energy to fight even a single Saxon if one attacked them. Gwaine isn’t worried, though; he has many years of practice at looking like he’s working hard when he isn’t. Just because Arthur wants to rid himself of every natural bodily impulse through combat drills, it doesn’t mean the rest of them have to, Gwaine figures.

The others start straggling towards the armoury, but Merlin rushes to Gwaine as soon as the bouts are done. Arthur notices but says nothing as he stands bent over, catching his breath.

“Gwaine!” Merlin calls with a suspiciously broad smile. “Let me help with your sword. What else have you got out here? I can take care of it. You must be exhausted.” He plants a sympathetic hand on Gwaine’s shoulder.

Gwaine casts another glance at Arthur, then looks at Merlin again. “Nice to see you, too. Normally I’d ask what you want from me, but, actually, I think I’m going to let you do me a bunch of favours first.” It’ll make the prince wish he’d asked for another match – with Gwaine, but that’s no matter now, and tomorrow’s training is so far away. “Well, I flung my shield way over there,” – he points towards a far, far, _far_ away tree, completely dishonestly – “and I’ve got a mace and two different swords somewhere near the bench. It’s a heavy load, but I’ve seen you manage more.”

Merlin looks at Gwaine, more than a little awestruck – he doesn’t even follow Gwaine’s gaze to locate the shield – so clearly having expected Gwaine to turn down the offer to act the servant to him. He quickly thinks to respond, though, and nods with a renewed smile. When he turns to dash after the shield, Gwaine grabs his arm.

“Kidding, mate. I wouldn’t really send you chasing down my kit all over the field! Besides, I just borrow Elyan’s for training.”

Merlin laughs into Gwaine’s eyes, shaking his head in what looks like a mix of disapproval and admiration, and Gwaine remembers why he’d do anything for Merlin. “All right, Merlin, now what is it you really need me for?” he asks. “I know it’s not that you’re short of chores.”

Merlin’s smile changes again as he looks sidelong at the knight, as if he’s about to challenge him, then clearly changes his mind. "Oh, Gwaine, it’s nothing! Can’t I just want to help a friend who’s had a rough day?”

Gwaine checks Arthur’s location and sees him walking slowly towards the armoury. He’s sure Merlin will hear about this neglect of his duties later. “You could, but I’d think you’d be doing yourself a favour by helping your prince instead. He might bloody well collapse before he gets inside that castle,” Gwaine says, nodding his chin towards the retreating figure.

Instinctually, Merlin’s head turns in a flash to see just how bad this will be for him. It’s likely too late now, though, and he turns back to Gwaine soon enough, but gets to the point.

“Fair enough,” he says. “I need to ask you a favour – a very small, almost nothing at all kind of favour. And it’d be great if you could do it as soon as possible.”

“Mm-hmm,” Gwaine responds, beginning to walk them towards the castle,  following in Arthur’s footsteps before the prince can misplace too much of his temper. “And what is this very small but incredibly urgent favour?”

Merlin waits a beat, and then says, rather quickly, “I just need you to ask Cook to make some sweetbread today, or tomorrow at the latest.”

Gwaine guffaws at the favour. Twice, in fact. “Cook? What makes you think she’d make it for me any more than she’d make it for you?”

“You’re a noble knight of Camelot?” Merlin tries with a happy shrug.

“So’s half the castle.”

“True, but do they have your roguish good looks?”

“She's impervious to them," Gwaine says, not even making an attempt at hiding his disappointment. "Tried it my first week here, didn't work at all.”

“What about your powers of suggestion? You can make it seem like it’s her idea.”

“Merlin, no one would put extra work on themselves and think it was a good idea. Except you, maybe.”

His friend looks like he's trying to decide whether or not he should be offended, but, as Gwaine expected, he doesn't deny the accusation. “Well, you’ll figure something out. Can you please just ask her? She likes you more than me.”

“She hates me less than you, Merlin. Really not the same thing.”

Merlin looks disproportionately let down by Gwaine’s response, so the knight – cursing himself for his stupid, tender heart – adds, “On the other hand, it’s not like you’re asking me to go through the Perilous Lands again, and Cook probably isn't going to kill me for asking.” Merlin looks reassured, so Gwaine continues, indulging his curiosity. “What do you need it for, anyway? I thought Arthur was more of a meat man.”

Merlin frowns at the question, completely missing the joke Gwaine is trying to make – and how far he’s come that he can laugh about this now. “He is,” Merlin answers. "It’s not for him. It’s for someone else. I said I would bring them some, but I didn’t know there wouldn’t be sweetbread for days.”

“Someone else? Anyone I know?” Now Gwaine is really curious.

“Maybe. Not really, no.”

"Yeah? Man or woman?"

"Woman," Merlin answers, then adds quickly, "but not like that. It’s Cassandra, she's new to the city, and—"

Whatever explanation he was about to give is interrupted by a loud cry from the armoury of “Merlin! Am I supposed to wait here all day for you?”

“That’s my cue,” Merlin says, starting to pick up his pace. He trots backwards long enough to say, “Thanks, Gwaine, I really appreciate it. Let me know when it’ll be ready?” And then he’s off with a run.

X

Gwaine’s curiosity increases fivefold after Merlin’s mysterious answer about who the bread is for, so he heads to the kitchens straightaway. He really ought to clean himself up at least slightly – even he considers himself unfit to be near unprepared food – but he knows sweat does his hair certain favours. He also thinks rather optimistically that Cook might have a secret liking for the musky scent of a well-worked knight.

It doesn’t seem all that likely when he saunters into the main kitchen and is immediately scolded by the old hag. “What are you thinking, coming in here like this? Get out of my kitchen!” She gestures for him to leave, swiping a wooden spoon through the air as if she’s shooing away a misbehaving dog.

“Oh, Cook,” Gwaine begins, trying to lay the charm on extra-thick. “I’m only here in this state because I’m famished – me and all the knights. If it weren’t for your cooking, we’d all collapse in our chainmail.” He leans on a carving table so that he can gaze up at her, knowing how this should help his case. “Arthur’s been working us ragged in training every day.”

“And?” She asks, returning to her chopped vegetables. “Hard work is good for you.”

This might be harder than a trip across the Perilous Lands after all, Gwaine thinks. Flattery and a plea for sympathy had seemed like his best plays. Without better ideas, he tries more of the same.

“It is, and it’s not like we’re not glad to join the best knights in the five kingdoms, but we’re all bloody starving after what Arthur puts us through! Help us out, just this once? Even Leon says he’s desperate for more of your stew, and a heaping plate of your sweetbread.”

This gets her attention, thank the gods. “Sir Leon?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. “He mentioned my cooking?”

“Mentioned it? He tells us all the time how lucky he was, growing up with your cooking, like he doesn’t know most of us new lot grew up half-starved,” Gwaine tries not to grin at her expression, even if it’s exactly what he was hoping for: he knew playing the sympathy card was going to work for them. “He especially likes that sweetbread – says it’s his favourite by far, and that it’s all he really needs to keep him going through these extra-hard training sessions.”

“My sweetbread, eh?” She looks dubious, and for a moment Gwaine is sure he’s been too obvious. Merlin has likely asked her about sweetbread just this morning, and now he’s mentioned it twice already. _Leon better not be sickened by this stuff_ , Gwaine thinks. “I didn’t think he or the prince cared for it much. It was always the Lady M— It was always other people who favoured it.” She hurries to another counter to avoid Gwaine’s gaze.

“Well, there you’re mistaken,” Gwaine says. “Leon always liked it just as much as Morgana. He was just more shy about his tastes.” He waits to see if Cook will argue that she meant someone other than Morgana. She doesn’t.

Finally she looks up, her hand in a bowl of oats. “That’s good to know," she says, her demeanour momentarily proud before she resorts back to disapproving. "But what about you? Why are you here asking about it? How do I know you don’t just want me to make it for you?”

“Me? Nah, I’m more of a meat man myself, like Arthur. But Leon… He works harder than the rest of us put together, not to mention having to take charge whenever His Highness is busy. Poor bloke deserves a treat after all the shite we put him through. I know it’s a lot to ask, but he’s done a lot for the city, hasn’t he? Hasn’t he saved your castle, your town, your home, and your king more times than he should need to to earn a bit of extra bread? And you’ve known him since boyhood. You’ve seen that mop of curls grow into the mane of a noble knight. You’ve watched as he’s marched armies into—”

“All right, all right. Enough! I’ll make your bread, and I’ll have it delivered to Leon as soon as it’s ready.”

“I knew they were wrong about you!” Gwaine says, rewarding Cook with a wide grin, hurrying on before she can ask who the entirely fictitious they are and what’s been said about her. “I’ll let him know to expect it. He’ll be so happy.”

As Gwaine makes his way out of the kitchens, Cook calls him back. “Sir Gwaine? On second thought, could you not tell him to expect it? I think I’d like for it to be a surprise, it being such a special treat and all.”

“Great idea,” Gwaine says. “Leon loves surprises!” _Leon hates surprises_ , he thinks, _too much like an ambush,_ _but no need for him to ever know about this one_.

X

It’s not until late in the evening that Merlin has a chance to visit Cassandra again, and even that he only manages by telling Arthur an elaborate story about herbs that can only be picked precisely when night falls in order to be of any use.

_And how are you sure precisely when night falls?_ Arthur had asked skeptically. _I wondered that, too_ , Merlin had stalled with, _but then Gaius explained that you can tell based on the angle of the moonlight reflecting off the leaves_. That sentence only earned him more skepticism from Arthur. He himself saw a lot of problems with that theory, too. _And what if it’s a cloudy night, or there’s no moon?_ Arthur asked. _Well, it isn’t cloudy, and there is a moon, so I won’t have that problem. Why do you think I’m going tonight?_ And then he'd hurried out of Arthur’s chambers, hoping that that would be the end of the subject between them.

 

He rushes down the long road to the lower town and arrives at the Worry Woman’s tent a little out of breath. “Cassandra?” he calls politely from outside.

X

_Shit_ , Morgana thinks, staring at her face in the mirror. _Her_ face, not Cassandra's, because the spell isn't meant to last longer than a few days, and between that and the level of concentration it takes to keep it in place, Morgana needs a break. What she does not need right now is Merlin, and yet Merlin is what she seems to have.

She throws a veil over her face and wraps a blanket high around her shoulders. “Don’t come in, please," she calls, desperately hoping Merlin demonstrates the kind of propriety he normally rejects entirely. "I’m not prepared for visitors just now."

“Oh," Merlin says, thankfully still outside. "I’m sorry to trouble you, I didn’t mean to come here so late. I just wanted to apologise for not returning with the sweetbread yet. It’s Merlin, by the way.”

She laughs noiselessly at his late identification. Who wouldn’t know Merlin? “That’s very thoughtful, Merlin. It’s no trouble, though. In fact, I was already drifting off to sleep. There will be time to bring me something in the next few days, if you still wish to.”

“I do, Cassandra. I’ve been trying all day to get some made, but it’s been a bit harder than I thought. Anyway, soon, though. I haven’t forgot, and I won’t.” She can picture him perfectly, stood looking at the heavy woolen curtain that functions as her door, wondering if she's going to say anything else or if he should just leave. “Erm, in the meantime can I bring you anything else?”

“No, Merlin, it’s quite all right. Please go back to your prince; I’m sure he’s wondering where you’ve run off to, and I really do need to get some rest.” She’s relieved he hasn’t pressed to see her, but she’s restless for him to just be gone.

“Of course. Thank you, Cassandra, for everything. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well,” he says, his voice too happy for the awkwardness of talking to someone through a wall of wool. He always was an odd one.

When she is sure he is gone, she removes the veil and blanket and lies on the cot, trying to concentrate on the magic in the earth beneath her, trying to feel it and feed from it as Morgause has taught her, but she’s not able to yet. It’s a wasted effort anyway, surrounded by the walls of Camelot, and her time is better spent focusing on ways to improve her spell instead – that is, when the memory of the taste of Cook’s sweetbread isn’t plaguing her senses.

Her dreams that night are restless, full of the fear of discovery and the desperate desire for a last supper before she goes.

X

As Morgana steps outside her tent this morning, she breathes in the scents of the morning, breakfasts being enjoyed by people nearby, and winces at her own hunger. It will pass if she gives it a few minutes, she knows, but still she hopes Merlin will come, and come early, and come early with sweetbread.

The thought has her eyes searching up the pathway towards the castle, but they are met not by a bouncing neckerchief and goofy ears, but by a lovely figure clad in a simple lilac gown. _It's Guinevere_ , Morgana thinks as she approaches, _Guinevere, and not my Gwen_. There is a confidence about her former friend, even in her brisk gait, that she hadn't quite achieved in prior years. Now, though, she looks like she has arrived, both into her full sense of herself and at Cassandra's tent, and it's so like Gwen to investigate every new curiosity in Camelot. Even so, there seems to be a natural pull between the two women, and Morgana curses her magic for its role in possibly bringing Gwen into her orbit so early, before she is fully prepared.

Then again, she used to miss Gwen more than everyone else put together: Morgana isn't sure she would ever really be prepared for her.

She heads back inside her tent and closes her eyes, focusing her power on the intensity of illusion. For all Gwen's sweetness and loyalty, she is actually more skeptical and shrewd than Merlin or Arthur. Gwen also knows – or knew, at any rate – Morgana better than anyone in Camelot, and is therefore the most likely to be able to see through her disguise.

As expected, Morgana hears Gwen's familiar, "Hello?" from outside the tent. Always polite, she is waiting for an invitation to enter, and Morgana shakes off the uncanny parallel to the days when Gwen was both her beloved friend and her dutiful servant.

"Come in, please," Morgana calls out, with a smile and glistening eyes too similar to those of her old self.

Gwen's appearance helps Morgana recommit to her present mission; she looks nothing less than stunning in a lavender dress that perfectly compliments her figure. It's still a maid's attire, but it makes her look almost regal. It seems Guinevere has thrived in Morgana's absence, which Morgana hadn't really imagined possible, and it irks her. She is proud of her – a little – but also jealous, even hurt that Gwen could not only sustain herself without Morgana but flourish, becoming the woman she was always going to be. The more Morgana contemplates their changes in station, the more her anger grows, working against her magic's efforts at a sweet, trustworthy countenance.

"I wouldn't usually seek out a stranger as a confidante like this," Gwen begins, fortunately not noticing anything amiss, "although I always try to greet those who are new in town, so I would be here anyway – but not necessarily to talk about anything personal, you understand. I mean, I do hope you are settling in all right. Have you been faring well in Camelot so far?"

The genuineness of her concern is plain from Gwen's manner, but her real reason for being here is obvious from her opening, and from her nervousness.

"Do not worry yourself on my account," Morgana says. "I am here to ease your troubles, not add to them. Since you ask, though, I find I feel very at home here."

Gwen smiles pleasantly, but blinks through an assessing look that lasts just a little too long to be without its hidden queries.

"Have you been here before, erm… Do you know, I’m not quite sure what to call you."

"Cassandra will be fine,” Morgana answers, wondering slightly at her phrasing.

"Cassandra, thank you. Have you been here before?" Gwen asks.

Morgana judges her options quickly, and somehow can't help but tempt fate. "Yes," she answers. "But it was a long time ago."

"When you were a girl, perhaps? I've always lived here. Perhaps I remember you, even from childhood."

"No – no," Morgana insists. "I was only here a few days, and I was very young – too young to talk to anyone."

"Well, we're glad you've come back, at any rate. Welcome," Gwen says, sensing Cassandra's desire to shift the conversation.

"That's very nice to hear," Morgana says, "but not many have cause yet to be glad. I've only had a few clients so far."

"One of them was a friend of mine, though – Merlin – and he can't stop raving about you! He's told everyone in the castle, I think, that they should come see you. He's like a new man since he was here. I'm not sure what you've told him, and I certainly wouldn't ask you to betray his confidence."

"And I never would," Morgana says, looking deeply into Gwen's eyes, trying to convey that promise with all of her being, to will some kind of buried secret from Gwen's lips. She has served the Pendragons too closely and for too long not to have overheard valuable information, or to have stumbled across something else useful, secret passageways in and out of the castle or something of that ilk.

"Oh, I would never want you to, honestly," Gwen says, pleading to be believed. "I actually meant just the opposite. It doesn't matter to me what you've told him, but whatever it is, it's made him so optimistic – happy, even, and that’s something that’s been in short supply around here lately. I was wondering what it might be that you'd say to me."

Morgana smiles at the explanation and nods her understanding. "Of course, my dear. Just as I will keep his secrets, I will keep yours as well. Tell me, what is it that weighs on your mind, that keeps you from being as happy?"

"Many things – and nothing, really. I am grateful for everything I have. I don't mean to sound as if I'm not, because I know how fortunate I am."

"You won't sound that way, trust me. Everyone has cares, wishes, burdens they have to carry. That's exactly why I am here. I help ease those things in your mind. You can tell me whatever you like. I promise your secrets are safe, and I will guide you with only the wisest counsel, if you wish it."

The quirk in Gwen's smile shows how appreciative she is of these assurances from Cassandra, but again her gaze lingers, and her smile begins to fade as it gives way to her heavier thoughts.

"Are you sure I wouldn't remember you, Cassandra? You seem oddly familiar to me. Your eyes – we've met before, I'm certain of it."

"Well, perhaps then, if you insist," Morgana concedes, half-grateful for the warm recognition from her old friend, half-resentful that the girl who once knew her better than anyone doesn't know her for who she is. "I'm glad you feel a comfort with me. That's important in helping you with your worries, which you were saying…?"

Gwen smiles and bows her head, a hint of embarrassment evident in the blush deepening on her cheeks.

"It's about a certain someone. A knight," Gwen starts, her fingers fidgeting with the basket she brought on her walk.

Morgana's sense of disappointment is sharp. She had been hoping to will Gwen to dig deep in her own psyche, to think of the things she might know about Arthur or the king – or the castle itself, even – that she thought she shouldn't know, things that weighed on her mind about the safety of the kingdom, or even treacherous thoughts that all servants must have towards royalty. Morgana had hoped, if she's honest, not only to learn from Gwen, but to find an ally in her in some small way, in vented aggression, a rebellious confession. Perhaps she also wanted Gwen to still be missing Morgana, and worrying about her well-being, despite her betrayal.

But romance seems to trump all in Guinevere's mind, and out spills a tale of first meeting Lancelot, of their instant bond, of seeing him again when they were both prisoners, and of his leaving her again after that, despite their acknowledged devotion to one another.

Now, it seems, he is back in Camelot for good, a proper knight in Arthur's service, and Gwen is beside herself with feelings for him. She is hesitant, though.

"He left, for ever so long," Gwen says, her heartache evident in her voice. "He left me, knowing how I felt, promising he felt the same way. He's done that twice already, and I know both times he thought it the honourable thing to do, his duty as a knight, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

"Of course not, Gwen," Morgana soothes, reaching a hand across the table to her former maid. "You have every right to be cautious, to feel hurt for his ability to leave you."

Morgana herself would never abide such treatment. To leave her once is to leave her for the last time. She can't decide which response to Lancelot the Lady Morgana would have encouraged – Gwen following her heart, or Gwen having the common sense necessary to preserve herself against the possibility of further heartache brought on by a man who has proven himself a fool – but she knows which one Cassandra would.

It turns out she has plenty of time to determine what to say, since once Gwen gets going about Lancelot, the details and little anecdotes, followed by her own analysis of their possible meanings, seem endless.

"But then he was gone, as I said," she continues, "and I couldn't exactly pine my life away for a man who might never return. I found myself flirting a bit with Ar— well, with someone truly unavailable to a me, and in the midst of that, before anything could be decided or resolved, Lancelot came back. It looked bad, I think, the thing with— with the other man, but as I said, I couldn't just sit and wait, could I? Oh, but of course I could have," she added chidingly to herself.

"No, no, my love," Morgana says, channeling her best Cassandra. "You are a smart, accomplished, beautiful woman, and you have every right to find happiness with whatever man you choose. I imagine there were many who attempted to gain your affections in Lancelot's absence." Including my cretin of a brother, Morgana thinks, wondering why Gwen didn't just come out and say his name, though she's not entirely sure she could have stood for it if she did. She can handle many a thing, her father's deceit and the terror she has lived with her whole life, but there is no way she could stand for Guinevere to marry Arthur, to become a Pendragon, to sit on her throne.

"Maybe," Gwen says, a modest little blush rising to her cheeks. "Sir Gwaine was pretty tenacious, I suppose, but he's like that with everyone," Gwen laughs, bringing some welcome levity to the discussion. "It's far less appealing than he thinks it is. Have you met him yet?"

"I have," Morgana says, giving in to the conspiratorial smile that lights up her face. They laugh at Gwaine for a short while, imitating his hair tosses and flower-chewing, then ease back into their roles as worrier and advisor.

"So, the trouble is that Lancelot has come back, and while I'm thrilled to have him here, I'm also confused and worried and unsure what to do. He's left before, and I've tried to move on, and I resent seeming like I've been here waiting this whole time." Gwen thinks for a moment, then adds with a laugh, "I also don't want him to know all the thoughts I've entertained about everyone from the prince down to his manservant while he was away."

Morgana feels a burst of kinship again. "Oh, Gwen, everyone entertains thoughts! Cherish your flights of fancy, but think through your actions. You have nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing you need tell Lancelot, either, not even in your interactions with the other man you've mentioned.  Besides, I’m sure Lancelot is happy just to be in your presence again. I doubt any of your concerns will prove worth worrying over."

"Do you think so? I'd hate to have missed my chance with him, but I'm also almost scared of how strongly attracted to each other I think we are. It's like we have this magnetic pull towards each other. Like the other day, he was at the far end of the castle, coming in from training, and I was just finishing up with the washing…"

Guinevere's anecdotes about how star-crossed she and Lancelot seem to be take up another fifteen minutes or so, and Morgana is only all too relieved when Gwen jumps out of her seat, realising she has left no time to finish the errand she was supposed to be on. She leaves in a hurry, but promises to come back soon to fill Cassandra in on any developments in her dealings with the handsome knight. Cassandra sees her out.

"Soon then, Guinevere," Morgana says as she waves her along her way. "But, gods, please, not very soon," she adds under her breath.

"Lost your patience already, m'lady?" Gwaine says, just behind her shoulder.

Morgana turns, startled. "What? No, I... I've just... I've not slept well and I'm hoping I might be able to rest a while before another client comes in. If you'll excuse me," she says, eager to be free of Gwaine, too.

"I'm not so sure I can, actually," Gwaine says, blocking the entrance to her sanctuary. "The Lady Morgana isn't excused much of anything in these parts."

_Bastard_ , she thinks. _Bloody bastard_.

X

She narrows her eyes at Gwaine, wondering what his next move will be. To arrest her? To call forth a legion of knights? To draw his sword on her?

No… He simply waits for her to respond to his accusation, and her silence seems to be response enough. She isn't interested in denying it; she feels immediate relief, actually, in being freed of _Cassandra_ and the need to sympathise with the trivial problems of love-struck morons. Still, she can't grant him this victory so easily.

"What can you do, Gwaine? If I'm the woman you speak of, your options are quite limited."

Gwaine chuckles through a mildly threatening grin. "Oh, I can do lots of things when it comes to a woman like you. The question is, what _will_ I do?"

It was annoyingly smart of him to confront her in the crowded path, where she can't lash out at him with her magic, but that doesn't mean she has to stand there and take it, and as soon as she gets Gwaine off the street and out of sight… Well, that's a whole different matter, isn't it?

"Well, while you decide, I'm going back in my tent. As I said, I could use some rest before I advise more people today."

She pushes her way past Gwaine, not bothering to hide her amusement at his expression. He's clearly baffled by her lack of concern and, if she's not wrong, more than a little impressed: Morgana can almost hear his thoughts – _she could use some rest?_ – can almost feel his confusion at why she's not summoning Morgause or running for her life, his admiration at her balls, and she knows exactly what he's going to do.

Intrigued, and utterly predictable, Gwaine follows her inside.

She's already sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping off her shoes and arranging her pillow, when he enters.

"And you've followed me in as well, Gwaine. How charming. You really don't miss any hints, do you?" She smiles, simpering and sweet, completely unnatural, but then that's rather the effect she was going for. "Of course, I can now kill you without witnesses, but I'm sure you realised that when you came in."

"True," he says, smirking down at her. "I'm banking on curiosity getting the better of you, but if you really want to kill me…" He takes a step back, his arms out at his sides, and Morgana can read that, too: _here I am, do your worst_.

And Morgana wants to, she really does, but… Gods, she hates this man. "Speak," she orders, glaring up at him. "Preferably before I lose my patience."

"Come, now, _Cassandra_. That's hardly very ladylike of you." He sits in the chair near her bed, still distressingly at ease. "I figured you out pretty quickly," he says. "Has anyone else done that yet?"

"Forget anyone else for now," she answers, trying to match his ease just as much as she's trying to regain control of this conversation. "What do you intend to do?"

"That depends on what you intend to do, m'lady."

"I have come here as a simple Worry Woman, just as the sign says," she claims in mock innocence.

"Right," Gwaine responds dubiously. "And there's no way that's a cover for some nefarious plan of yours."

"It's really not so nefarious, Gwaine. Have you seen me do anything that is a threat to you, or Arthur, or even my bastard father? I have been staying here in my humble shelter, away from the castle, and I’ve sought out no one. Any interactions I've had with those I used to know have been purely coincidental. I'm here only to listen and to ease worries, I assure you."

"And how will you do that, assuming you're telling the truth? You have magic. For all I know, you're hypnotising the whole kingdom one by one to get them to play into some coup of yours."

"Hypnotising? Please. You saw Gwen when she was leaving here. How did she look? What was she talking about?"

"What else would she talk about?" Gwaine says, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. "Lancelot."

"To you, too, huh?" Morgana asks, a little surprised.

"Oh, to everyone. I'm sure she thinks it's subtle, but it can't be. Not when all he does is ogle her and tell everyone about her tremendous honor and goodness making him a better man or some such nonsense. Merlin's up to his neck with it from the both of them."

Their eyes meet at the end of that revelation, and they laugh together heartily. Of course Merlin is everyone's confidant, and he definitely listens with more patience and sympathy than Morgana, even than Cassandra, who claims that listening is her profession.

"Oh, poor Merlin," Morgana says, finally letting her head fall to the pillow. "All day being bullied by Arthur and Gaius, and every free minute having to listen to lovesick nonsense from Lance and Gwen."

"Is that what he's been in here complaining about?" Gwaine asks, evidently still wondering why Morgana wants private conversations with anyone who'll come to her.

"Merlin? No. He probably doesn't even notice Gwen and Lance talking to him. I think all he hears is Arthur, all the time. Gods, that must be dreadful."

"Somehow, he likes it that way, though," Gwaine says, visibly unsurprised by Merlin's extreme focus on the prince; everyone sees it, and, from his expression, Gwaine has felt the sting of it quite keenly. However charming he thinks he is, he's clearly won nothing more than a promising smile from Merlin, and the promise, it turns out, is only one of friendship. Merlin is most definitely Arthur's, even if Arthur doesn't know it.

"That he does," Morgana says, idly curling a thick strand of her hair through her fingers.

They sit in silence for a while, but it's a surprisingly comfortable one. It feels natural, even pleasant, to both of them. Eventually, Gwaine puts a hand on the table, straightening his posture.

"I have a proposition for you," he says.

"Oh, no," Morgana replies, rolling onto her side; his charm will work no better on her than it has on Merlin or Guinevere. "Not on your life, Gwaine. Keep dreaming."

"Not that kind of proposition, although I could be convinced, if it's really what you want," he teases. "Seriously. I propose that as long as you let me listen in on your sessions, I won't give away who you are to anyone."

"Listen in? Why on earth would you want to listen in?"

"Why’d you want to hear any of it in the first place? I think that's a better question. You have tried to wipe out the kingdom a time or two, you know."

Morgana's lips form a pout, but with her back to Gwaine, he thankfully doesn't see. She's not in the mood to dwell on her vengeful acts, which had such a large scope, and if she’s totally honest, she was never all that comfortable with any of those plans, even though they’d seemed like her only option at the time. Here, now, she feels much more like blending in, like just being part of Camelot. She's still hungry for information that might help her win her rightful place on the throne eventually, but she resists thoughts of real violence for the moment, finding them distasteful and offensive, even.

"All right, fine," she agrees. "You can listen in. But tell me one thing. How did you know it was me?"

"You're pretty unique, Morgana,” he says with a grin. “Honestly, I'm surprised no one else has caught on yet. You still manage to sit like you think you’re on a throne, though without the same stick up your arse problem your brother has, and then there’s the eyes. Might not be quite the same colour, but they’re just as sharp as they were before. The final clue, though, was your payment plan."

"My payment plan?"

"Yeah. You come to town, set up a tent, offer to listen to whatever shit people want to tell you, and all you ask in return is some of Cook's sweetbread. Just a bit of advice for you, m’lady – if you’re gonna pretend to be a beggar, don’t go asking for something only the royal family gets to eat.”

"The sweetbread…" Morgana says, halfway to cursing herself for not thinking first, but still not altogether sorry she'd asked for it. "Did you bring any?" she asks, raising herself up on her elbow, knowing her hope is probably written all over her face.

Gwaine's smile reaches one ear but not quite the other, and the amusement in it stirs a fondness for the knight in Morgana that she hasn't felt for anyone in ages. The little swell of warmth in her breast is welcome, and it lends her cheeks a subtle blush. She smiles broadly in return, eager for the tasty snack she is now sure he has brought.

Gwaine digs through his satchel and brings out a half-loaf of bread with the berries still warm from the kitchen fires. "I may have eaten some on the way here," he says, unwrapping the cloth to share the morning meal.

X

Morgana gapes at him in mock outrage, and Gwaine shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't help it! You know how good this stuff is," he says, licking the fingers that had picked at the loaf, then grabbing another chunk – from the edge of the loaf, not the middle; he might be uncouth, but he's not a monster.

She leans over and grabs a large portion of the bread from him, sinking her teeth into it immediately. She closes her eyes to devote her senses to the appreciation of the flavors and textures of her favourite comfort food, moist in her mouth, the expression on her face one of absolute bliss. Sitting on her knees, lost in this revelry of sweetness, she looks, Gwaine thinks, like a little girl: simple and pure, enjoying one of life's finer pleasures for once. His smile is genuine.

As they continue eating and chatting, he makes sure that she gets all of the best bites, and she makes sure to savour every one. Neither of them really notices the time go by.

X

Gwaine shows up at her tent bright and early the following morning, grinning like the old lord who would insist on trying to sit next to her at banquets. (To his credit, Uther always managed to place at least three decent, respectable, well-armed men between them, and Morgana chalks her sudden moment of nostalgic fondness for her father up to the lingering disconcertion from her conversation with Guinevere yesterday).

“Don’t you have training?” she asks, though she’s not actually all that bothered.

“To hell with that,” Gwaine answers, marching inside and poking around. “They won’t miss me today, Arthur’s pissy about something Merlin broke, and… Well, I’m hardly anyone’s concern right now.”

“Oh, joy,” Morgana says, following him inside and perching on the trunk containing her most personal possessions, just in case he gets any ideas about rummaging through her underthings while he’s looking for whatever he’s looking for. “Three guesses who my first visitor’s going to be.”

Gwaine shakes his head, grinning absurdly. “ _Our_ first visitor, m’lady, unless you want me to renege on my side of the bargain.”

Morgana grimaces, but doesn’t object, and Gwaine only grins more brightly. “Where d’you want me, m’lady?” he asks, clearly unfamiliar with the concept of being gracious in victory. “Under the table or behind a curtain?”

X

Somehow, Lancelot thought knighthood would involve more chivalry and slaying of mythical beasts than it does. That is not to say he is not happy about it, of course, because serving a worthy king and fighting for a worthy cause has been his greatest ambition since childhood, but he would quite like spending slightly less time being Prince Arthur's errand-boy.

Apparently, though, Merlin has suddenly found himself prone to taking _unscheduled, unauthorised, unwelcome hours of disappearance_ (according to His Highness, that is). In itself, this is hardly unexpected, since Lancelot finds himself incapable of denying how difficult a taskmaster Arthur can be, and he is aware how disrespectful it is of him to even think it, but he is surprised Merlin has managed to work for him for so long without running for the hills. It is not at all unexpected, but Lancelot would quite like it if his friend gave him some indication as to where he might be hiding before he vanishes, in order that Lancelot might be able to locate him slightly quicker when Arthur asks him to.

Today, Lancelot has visited Gaius, searched out every single person Gaius provides remedies for, taken a brief trip to the kitchens, interrogated the steward, and investigated the stocks (just in case Arthur has sent him there and then forgotten about it). Now, finally, he is on his way to checking _The Rising Sun_ in the desperate and probably futile hope (being in the know about Merlin's sorcery, Lancelot is more than aware that _he's in the tavern_ is rarely anything other than a cover story) that he might find Merlin there before he has to launch a thorough search outside of the city on top of the equally thorough one he has conducted within the city walls.

The tavern being rather more Gwaine's domain than his, it is with great trepidation that Lancelot pushes open the door, ducks a flagon (empty, of course) that may or may not have been aimed at his head, and employs some of Arthur's carefully instilled manoeuvres in order to safely reach the bar.

"What can I get you, Sir Knight?" the girl asks, already pulling a pint with a flair Lancelot has had to listen to Gwaine describe in excessive detail.

"Nothing, thank you," Lancelot answers – pointlessly, since she gives him the flagon of ale anyway, holding her hand out until Lancelot hands her a few copper coins in exchange. He drinks, more from manners than anything else, then catches her by the sleeve before she can disappear to serve someone else. "I do not suppose you have seen Merlin in here today, have you?"

"Merlin?"

"The prince's servant. Dark hair, colourful scarves, brown coat…?"

"The one who spends half his time in the stocks?"

Out of loyalty, Lancelot hides his smile. "That would be Merlin, yes. Have you seen him?"

The girl shakes her head, twists her sleeve from Lancelot's grasp, and darts off to serve other customers; Lancelot takes another sip of his ale, grimaces, and departs, ready to search somewhere else until—

"Merlin?" he asks, squinting in surprise as his friend ducks out of the tent beside the tavern. "What are you doing here?"

Merlin flounders like a fish on dry land for a moment. "I—" he says, then shakes himself into the kind of self-confidence Lancelot thinks few others see in him. "I was talking to Cassandra," he finishes, as though that ought to tell Lancelot everything he needs to know.

"And Cassandra is…?"

"Oh," Merlin says, blinking, his eyes not quite focused. "Haven't I told you about her? She's – honestly, she's amazing. She appeared in the city a few weeks ago, she calls herself a worry woman, and if you have a problem you can talk to her about it and she gives really good advice. She's amazing."

"You said that already."

Merlin shrugs, smiling, and for a moment Lancelot fears he is going to resume gushing. "Well, she is. She's amazing."

"I see."

Apparently something of Lancelot's concern at the idea of Merlin – Merlin – spilling things to a complete stranger makes its way through those two syllables, because Merlin's smile slips from his face so quickly Lancelot feels guilty. "Oh, Merlin," he says, resting his hand on Merlin's shoulder and drawing him further from the tent. "You know I appreciate the complexities of your situation, but surely you understand the risks of what you are doing?"

"I haven't told her about – about my secret, if that's what you're worrying about," Merlin answers, his jaw set stubbornly. "I'm not an idiot, Lancelot."

"I never said you were," the knight placates, placing his free hand on Merlin's other shoulder. "I just… What do you know about this woman, Merlin? Even if you have not told her about your" – he lowers his voice and leans in, hissing the next word into Merlin's ear – " _magic_ , you still need to be careful. As Arthur's servant and closest companion, you hear so much privileged information. You need to be _careful_."

"I am, Lancelot, I promise," Merlin says, momentarily earnest, then slipping back into the same vagueness he wore a moment ago. "Look, just speak to her, you'll understand."

"Merlin, I do _not_ —"

"Just speak to her," Merlin repeats. "Speak to her, and if you don't think I should trust her, I won't go back."

With that, Merlin smiles, ducks out from under Lancelot's arms, and turns in the direction of the citadel, hopefully heading for Arthur's rooms, leaving Lancelot to stare between his friend and the tent he suddenly feels obliged to enter.

X

Of all the people Morgana might have expected to cross her threshold, she can quite honestly say that Sir Lancelot is not one of them. Arthur's knight, the first of his choosing, has always projected a level of dignity that suggests not so much a lack of concern as a perfect stoicism about keeping it to himself. Still, she's not one to turn down a new source of information, and she finds herself wanting to mention Gwen in his presence, curious as to how much of a reaction she can get and how much cause for hope her friend should have.

"Hello," he says, sounding approximately three and a half times more hostile than anyone else who has visited her – which, if what Gwaine's told her of the other knights has any basis in fact, is probably the equivalent of someone else holding a knife to her throat.

"Good afternoon," Morgana answers, offering him a polite smile. "How might I help you, good sir?"

"I have been told your listening skills are rather good," Lancelot says, sitting in the seat Merlin has so recently left and fixing her with a peculiarly earnest stare.

"You flatter me, sir knight," Morgana says, adding a little extra brightness to her smile in the hope that her disguise will make it look like sincerity. "I do my best to help those who come to me, it is true. So, what might be troubling you today, Sir…?"

"Lancelot," he fills in, sparing her the necessity of continuing to pretend she doesn't know who he is. "As for what troubles me, I…" He frowns, closing his mouth for a long moment, and when he starts speaking again Morgana is quite sure he's abandoned his sentence for something entirely different. "I am concerned about a friend. I have my doubts about some of the company he may be keeping."

Morgana smiles, this time genuinely flattered, at least if she's correct about the identity of Lancelot's friend and his company; it's hardly what she desires of her disguise, this mistrust, but after Merlin's delight in speaking to her, Gwen's easy-going nature, George's irritating, self-pitying diatribes, the crying women and Gwaine asking if he can eavesdrop rather than turn her in… After all this, it is good to have someone recognise her as a threat again.

Still, she should probably try set Lancelot at ease, if she's hoping to get anything useful from him.

"Have you spoken to him about this?" she asks, still smiling. "Does he know you're worried?"

"I mentioned it," Lancelot scoffs. "He thinks his new friend is absolutely wonderful, and I am apparently overreacting."

"I see," Morgana says, feigning a long moment of careful consideration. Her response is already decided upon, largely because she wants to see how Lancelot will react to it. "In that case, it would seem to me that you have two options. The first is that you try to keep an eye on the situation, protecting your friend to the best of your ability, even if you have to do that from a distance. As for the second… Have you considered speaking to his new friend, perhaps trying to understand what it is that your friend sees in them?"

Lancelot doesn't quite smile at that, but it's close, and when he speaks it's with the same kind of honesty Morgana's spell has given her reason to expect. "With all due respect, Cassandra, that would be why I am here."

"You…" Morgana opens her eyes wider, doing her best to feign being surprised and just a tiny bit offended, rather than grinning in delight. "Sir Lancelot, are you… Well, it sounds like you could be talking about me."

“I mean no offence,” he answers, which Morgana takes to be a well-mannered yes.

"Well," she says, resigning herself to yet another client who won't give her any useful information, "if that's the case, I'm not entirely sure how to go about reassuring you."

She sits, wondering how long it'll take for Lancelot to realise he's dismissed, and then suddenly has a better idea; he might not trust her enough to tell her anything useful about Camelot, but then – according to Merlin – the situation with Gwen is already poised to bring Arthur to his knees.

Arthur's heart will be broken, Gwen will be happy and nowhere close to sitting on Morgana's throne, and her kingdom will be ripe for her to reclaim.

All it needs is one little push.

X

"Lancelot," Cassandra says slowly, consideringly. "You know, I'm sure I've heard your name. You wouldn't happen to be Guinevere's Lancelot, would you?"

"I…" Lancelot starts, only to realise he has no idea at all how he ought to answer that question. "I… It is complicated."

"How so?" Cassandra quirks her head to one side. On her slight frame, the gesture makes her look oddly birdlike, as well as even more vulnerable than she seemed at first glance; Lancelot feels a surge of remorse for his mistrust of her, particularly when she adds, "Of course, I don't expect you to answer, if you don't want to."

"No…" Lancelot deliberates a moment, then continues; this woman seems harmless enough, and even if she is a threat somehow, his feelings for Guinevere are hardly a great secret. "I would hardly say that she was mine, but yes, I am indubitably hers."

"And yet you left her, am I right?"

“I...” Lancelot says again, feeling the same flush of guilt he has every time he remembers how little he can bring to Gwen, how little right he has to pursue his feelings for her. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he confesses. “Part of me still thinks so.”

Cassandra leans forward, her elbows on the table between them, expression a picture of compassion, even as she asks her questions entirely unflinchingly. “Do you suppose she sees it that way?”

“There was nothing I could give her,” he explains, knowing it’s not quite an answer to the question she is asking. “I had no home, I had no means of providing for her… At the time, I was barely even able to keep myself alive. It was not the sort of life I could imagine dragging someone I love into.”

“And you think Guinevere cannot provide for herself?” Cassandra demands, a ruthlessness to it that defies her largely benign demeanor. “From what I’ve seen, she is a strong, capable woman, and you did her a great disservice in not allowing her to make her own choice.”

Lancelot hangs his head, as ashamed as he knows he deserves to be. “I want more for her than the life I could have given her then. I want the world for her.”

“And if she doesn’t want the world?” Cassandra asks. “If what she wants is you?”

“It is too late for that, unless… Are you saying her heart does not already belong to another?” Lancelot cannot keep himself from saying, and if there is anything on earth he wishes to be true, it is that. However it betrays himself and his oaths and the man who will one day be his king, Lancelot cannot help but wish that was true.

“I am saying, Sir Lancelot, that Guinevere is more than capable of deciding for herself what she wants,” Cassandra tells him, momentarily still harsh, then softens, reaching for his hand. “But, if you want my honest opinion, telling her what you have just told me certainly won’t hurt.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin's visits have become something close to routine by now, in Morgana's opinion: he arrives, he whinges about Arthur, he whines about Gaius, he moans about whatever burdensome destiny he believes he has, and then he looks at her like he expects her to magically (or unmagically, given their location) fix everything.

It was entertaining for the first week or two, at least as much as it was irritating; aside from the _works for Arthur_ situation, Merlin really has almost nothing of substance to complain about, but that isn't to say Morgana didn't enjoy hearing of his misery, a little. Now, though, after more than a month of Merlin’s petty complaints, it has grown most tiresome, and with Gwaine out on patrol and not due to return for a day or two, Morgana has nothing to distract her from Merlin's drivel, and very little to remind her of why she's trying to be nice to him.

"Really, Merlin," she says, cutting off his account of whatever heinous sin Arthur has committed this time (she stopped listening what feels like an eternity ago, when the sympathetic responses became rote enough that she didn't need to think before giving one). "If he's that unpleasant to work for, I really have no idea why you stay."

"Because he's _Arthur_ ," Merlin answers, sounding tired, like he's explained this a thousand times before, and for all Morgana can recall, he might as well have. "He can be difficult, sometimes, but he can also be so much better than this."

"I've yet to see evidence of that fact."

"You don't know him, though. Not like I do."

_I've known him longer than you have_ , Morgana thinks. _Years longer. I know who he is._

"Perhaps it's time we change that fact," she says, because if Merlin knows anything of use to her, he's not sharing it, and no one else is, either. Arthur not only knows things, but his father's deep aversion to sorcery means Arthur has never really been close enough to it to build up any sort of resistance to her spells, not the same way Merlin and Gwaine and others not raised in Camelot seem to have. "I think I should like to meet this prince of yours."

Merlin smiles at her, shaking his head. "Arthur isn't one for talking about things. He much prefers hitting them."

Morgana finds herself smiling in return, given how familiar with that fact she is. "Still," she says, softly, benign, lacing her voice with persuasion, "perhaps you could suggest it to him. It may be that he'll find it simpler to talk to me, a stranger, than he would to talk to someone whose judgement he could so easily read on their face."

Merlin frowns, and Morgana thinks she has gone too far. She's always hesitated to suggest Merlin bring Arthur to her, knowing how inordinately protective of her brother he is, but she's growing bored, weary of all Merlin's trite complaints and occasional blushing confessions, and even if Arthur will refuse to tell her anything to help her and Morgause gain control over Camelot, she can at least try – for her own sake, because gods know she doesn't want to make _Merlin_ happy – to bully him into being kinder to Merlin (not that that ever worked so well for her when she was the Lady Morgana, so it hardly seems likely Cassandra will have any more luck, but she can _try_ ).

Now, though, as Merlin looks at her with a wariness no one has ever shown her since she donned her disguise, she remembers Merlin drinking poison for Arthur, for the first time finds it further forwards in her memory than the poison she drank at Merlin's hands. Merlin would die for Arthur, she knows, probably more readily than he'd kill for him, and this, this is too much to ask of him. This is all her hard work ruined, all his enforced trust in her destroyed; one stupid question has lost her Merlin's confidences, and with them those of everyone else he has sent here, most likely.

Gwaine will be so disappointed in her.

"I'm sorry, Merlin," she says, cursing herself for her stupidity, trying desperately to rescue the situation, recall all the trust Merlin has for her. "That was an inappropriate thing for me to suggest. I'd never ask you to do anything you aren't comfortable with, and I do hope you'll forgive me."

Merlin frowns a little longer, then shakes his head, breaking into that grin of his, the one that, even now, when Morgana knows the dark soul he hides beneath it, still manages to light up the world and the people around him. "It's okay," he says. "I trust you, Cassandra. And maybe you're right. Maybe Arthur would find it easier to talk to you than he does Gwen or me."

"We can only hope," Morgana answers, offering a grin of her own in answer. "Now, tell me, Merlin, what else troubles you today?"

X

“Gwen,” a voice calls, with the rich warmth to it that still sends shivers down Gwen’s spine.

“Lancelot,” she answers, turning to face him, trying to keep her smile something closer to dignified than delirious. “Can I help you?”

“I— Might I have a word with you?”

Gwen glances at the basket in her arms, then decides changing the linens in the currently unused guest wing can wait. “Of course,” she says, putting her basket aside and smoothing her skirt. “What is it?”

Lancelot takes a deep breath, looking around them with his eyes wide, then reaches out and takes her hands in his. “I want to apologise,” he says, almost painfully earnest. “I have treated you shabbily in the past, and I know it is probably too late to ask your forgiveness, but I am. I left when I should have stayed, and although you deserve better than anything I can give you, I would like very much if you gave me the chance to make amends.”

“Oh, Lancelot,” Gwen answers, plucking at her lip with her teeth, so very unsure. It hurt so much to wake up in the forest that morning with him gone, making her way back to Camelot with Merlin trying to smile and laugh as Arthur looked just as terribly guilty as she felt. It hurt, and there hasn’t been a day gone by when Guinevere hasn’t wished that she had been enough for Lancelot to return to Camelot. The one bright spot of Morgana’s betrayal and those weeks spent living in caves and ruins is that it brought Lancelot back into her, and yet… “Lancelot, you mean a great deal to me, and I can’t see that ever changing, but I don’t know if I will ever be able to trust you not to leave me again. I can’t forget that, even if I can’t forget you either.”

“I understand,” he says, his eyes warm and rich, his hands strong and yet so gentle as they hold hers. “I would never ask you to forget, but I am here to stay this time, and I will do anything it takes to convince you of that fact.”

“Oh, Lancelot,” she says a second time, and has no idea what to follow it up with.

X

Contrary to what his servant seems to believe, Arthur is not a woman, nor will he ever be. As such, he is not prone to the same level of worry that so often plagues the fairer sex. At worst, Arthur will say that he has concerns of a manful fashion, and on the rare occasion such concerns strike him, he deals with them equally manfully: he shouts at Merlin, throws things, trains for longer than is necessary, and generally makes life difficult for anyone in his immediate and not-so-immediate vicinity until such time as he feels better.

Certainly, Arthur is amongst the manliest of men, and he does _not_ have worries.

It is for this reason and no other that Arthur reacts uncharitably when Merlin, on standing up too quickly after rooting around under Arthur's bed, catches Arthur with a frown on his face, his eyes firmly attached to the place that was a moment ago occupied by his servant's behind (and there is _nothing_ unmanful about that, nor is there any shame to be found in admitting it to himself), and suggests that Arthur take a trip down to a tent so recently assembled in the lower town.

"And why would I do that, _Mer_ lin?" Arthur demands, refusing to drop Merlin's gaze, even as he feels his face turn a hearty shade of red.

"There's a woman there," Merlin says, his eyes equally unlowered, and whilst Arthur has long since ceased trying to instill a sense of propriety in him, there are some conversations a prince just does _not_ have with his servant, even if said servant appears to have just caught his prince observing his behind rather lustfully.

"A _woman_?" Arthur asks, every drop of disdain he can muster in his voice. "I wasn't aware you kept company with _women_ , Merlin."

This comment has the most-welcome effect of making Merlin blush, and there is more than a hint of spluttering to his voice when he replies. "Not that kind of woman, Arthur, honestly. She… To be honest, she sort of reminds me of my mother, and she… listens. To your problems. And helps you think of ways to solve them."

Arthur is torn between two responses, the first an overly defensive and mildly awkward _Are you suggesting that I have problems?_ to which he decidedly does not want an answer, in light of which fact he battles his tongue into providing response number two. "Do you mean to tell me, _Mer_ lin, that you have spent your evenings trawling the town for some poor woman to burden with whatever trivialities you consider to be problems?"

For a second, just a second, there is an expression on Merlin's face that seems uncomfortably close to resentment, fierce and base and as un-Merlin as anything Arthur can imagine; he has seen people look on him with resentment before, just as often as he sees admiration, but Merlin… Arthur has always considered Merlin above that, better than that. "It's not like that, either," Merlin says, his expression twisting into petulance so quickly that Arthur has no choice but to decide the bitterness he seemed to spy is nothing more than his imagination. "It's how she makes her living, Arthur, and if she didn't enjoy being able to help people, why would she do it?"

This is a sentiment so typical of Merlin that Arthur almost misses the most relevant part of it. Almost, but not quite. "You _pay_ this woman to listen to your drivel?" he asks, incredulous and a tad offended; for all that Merlin prattles on constantly, he says so little of substance, and Arthur rather thinks that whatever worries he might think he has, he should at least have the decency to share them with Arthur. "And here I've been paying you to work for me, when it seems that in actual fact, you are rather a lot in my debt."

Merlin rolls his eyes, dragging together the bundle of Arthur's dirty bedding and heading for the door. "I'm just saying, it looks like there's quite a lot that's bothering you, and sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than someone you know," he says gently. "It certainly couldn't hurt to try, could it?"

"Girl," Arthur says to his back, his tone hitting a fondness that falls rather short of the contempt he would have said he was aiming for. He knows his eyes are dropping just slightly again, but watching Merlin’s arse as he leaves does not make him a woman, and he doesn't need to talk to _anyone_ about _anything_ ,

"You wish," Merlin throws back over his shoulder, yanking the door closed behind him, and no, Arthur doesn't, even if Merlin being female would make his whole future so much easier.

X

Despite being more than entirely certain of his gender, Arthur finds himself struggling to settle this evening, his brain too full of Merlin and his almost certainly well-meaning suggestion. His manservant hasn't mentioned it again, of course, but that doesn't mean Arthur hasn't been thinking about it and, now that he's listening, Merlin isn't the only one talking about a woman in town who makes it her mission to resolve people's concerns.

He hears two maids giggling in the hallway on his way to training, talking about Cassandra and the advice she's given one of them about turning down a man she isn't interested in, then an entirely different gaggle of girls talking about her suggestion as to how to ensnare someone they fancy. He happens across Gaius, the old man muttering under his breath about a recent argument he's had with an acquaintance as to where to gather a particular plant, and how he shall have to seek out Cassandra's knowledge of herblore in order to find a resolution to the dispute. Leon doesn't say anything explicit about having seen her, but there's a suggestion, somehow, and Arthur catches Percival casting a shifty, sideways glance at the tent erected near the tavern.

Strangely enough, that is the last straw: if Percival, who has barely said ten words to Arthur since they took back Camelot from his sister, is talking to this Worry Woman, there is clearly something suspect going on, and Arthur is going to find out what it is.

It is for this reason and absolutely no other that he waits until Merlin has left for the evening before donning his blue cloak; the red is too distinctive, too clearly his or one of his men's, and Arthur will never hear the end of this if Merlin learns of it, even if his reason for visiting Cassandra is investigation rather than advice. His face carefully concealed by his hood, Arthur presses his ear to the door for a moment before opening it and making his way down the hallway outside his room, keeping his footsteps as silent as he can.

He's walked the corridors of the castle and the streets of the lower town often enough that he feels no need for a torch to light his way, and since he assigns the guards their patrols, he knows where they'll be and where they won't, which route is safe to take and which will lead to awkward questions about where the crown prince may be going, alone, at this hour of the night. Not that anyone encountering him will ask, of course, but they'll want to, and since Arthur _can_ avoid notice, he would by far prefer to do so.

He makes it to the doors of the citadel without being seen, and from then on the journey is far easier; the moon lights his way just as well as any other source of light would, and dressed as he is, he could be any of a thousand people in the city, out walking for any of a thousand reasons.

The inside of the tent is exactly how he expected it to be, though the woman is not. Truthfully, Arthur has had a hard time picturing the sort of woman who might seem a suitable confidante to everyone from Gaius to Guinevere, and yet the woman who sits inside Cassandra's tent is nothing close to what he may have imagined. She isn't young, but nor is she old, and the expression on her face is not one of openness, but is instead cautious, the sort of care it takes most men a good few years of battles to learn. She's beautiful, too, in the same accidental way Guinevere is, and when she looks up at him, her smile reminds him of the kind, genuine, gentle one he sometimes manages to surprise from Merlin.

"Your highness," she says, standing up and dipping into a curtsey with all the grace of a warrior. "Please, take a seat."

Completely wrong-footed, Arthur obeys before he thinks about it, settling himself in the chair opposite the one she retakes. "Thank you," he says, disconcerted by the slight tremble to his voice, then, feeling the need to regain control of this before his uncertainty gets out of hand, adds, "But I'm not here to talk about myself."

"And I'm afraid I don't talk about myself, sire," Cassandra answers, her abruptness just as unsettling as her initial appearance was. "So we either find ourselves sitting in silence until you leave or I fall asleep, or we find something else to discuss."

"Fine," Arthur says, because if she wants to treat this like a battle, that's what he's going to do; fighting is what he knows best, after all, and what does it matter if this is a battle of words rather than blades? "Why are you here, Cassandra?"

"To listen, Arthur Pendragon. I hear it's not a skill of yours – perhaps because you're unfamiliar with the concept?"

There's something familiar about her sniping at him, almost nostalgic, and Arthur tries and fails not to be swayed by it. "And what are you listening for? No one would willingly listen to the problems of everyone in Camelot, unless there was something they wanted to find out."

"It's hardly everyone in Camelot, my lord."

"Well," Arthur answers, "it certainly seems that way. Merlin, Guinevere, half my knights and almost all of the serving staff, Gaius… You know, I do believe it would be quicker to list the people who _haven't_ sat in this tent."

"Are you jealous, sire?"

"Jealous? Of what?"

"Well, my lord, they are your subjects," Cassandra says, in a tone remarkably similar to the one Merlin uses when he believes himself to be stating the obvious. "One might expect them to come to you with their concerns."

Arthur laughs, because years of practice with Merlin have provided him with great immunity to that voice. "Actual concerns, yes. From what I've heard, however, you spend more time attempting to advise fools on their love lives than you do solving any real problems."

For a second, Cassandra looks ruffled, her easy smile shifting into something harder and far less genuine. "I'm happy to help them with any troubles they have," she says, though _happy_ probably isn't the word Arthur would use to describe her. "I would be just as happy to help you with whatever it is that has brought you to my door, sire, and you need not fear that I will tell anyone what you say. My silence is guaranteed."

That, Arthur doubts, however much a part of him wants to trust her; his father has always cautioned him to keep his own counsel, warned him that gossip, however harmless it may seem, is rarely idle, and the idea of spilling even the smallest of secrets to this stranger is alien to him, no matter how wonderful a person Merlin seems to think she is.

"Really," he says, tone flat.

"My lord?"

"I was just wondering," Arthur says, changing track slightly; perhaps, if he can prove to Merlin this woman is far less trustworthy than she seems, Merlin will stop finding excuses to visit her every other hour. "You see such a lot of people. How do you remember who told you what?"

Cassandra smiles at him, something about it seeming confused. "I'm not sure I understand the question, my lord."

"Well," Arthur elucidates, feeling slightly smug, "take, just for example, Merlin. He's here _all the time_ , and he surely expects you to recall what he said to you on _all_ of his previous visits. What makes you so certain that you haven't accidentally repeated to him something that someone else has told you, or shared his secrets with another?"

"I assure you, my lord, that for all they may seem trivial to you, everyone's problems are entirely unique." Her smile, no longer confused, has teeth to it, and possibly claws as well. "Now, I find it interesting that that's the second time you've mentioned Merlin since you got here. Shall we talk about why that is?"

X

Her brother does not speak for some time, but Morgana is content to wait him out, trying to keep her victory from showing on her face. Arthur does seem overly preoccupied with Merlin coming here, perhaps thinking his servant is sharing with her the sort of information Morgana wishes he was, and if she’s as convincing as she thinks she is, this is the ideal opportunity to create a rift between them. It might not be unreasonable for Arthur to doubt Merlin's ability to keep his silence, given how terrible a chatterbox he can be, but Merlin will only be able to see it as Arthur not trusting him, and without trust… Well, Morgana is quite sure she can persuade Merlin that if Arthur thinks he's betraying his secrets, actually doing so isn't really a whole lot worse.

Eventually, Arthur opens his mouth, and despite his clear attempts to sound like he's the one in control of the conversation, Morgana knows he's beginning to realise just how much that isn't the case. "I am merely concerned," he says, "about how much of his time you seem to be taking up. He does have duties to attend to."

Morgana smiles at him, and it probably comes out more fierce than it does sweet, but the spell should keep that from being too much of a problem; the expressions feel like her own, even as her clients view them as compassionate. "I find a man with nothing on his mind works far more efficiently than one lost in thought half the time. Would you not agree, sire?"

"A man, certainly, but Merlin? There's never anything on his mind anyway, so quite what he thinks he needs to unburden on _you_ all the time, I've no idea."

His inflection is so faint, so well-masked, that Morgana almost misses it entirely. "On _me_?" she asks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were wondering what he thinks he needs to unburden on _me_ ," Morgana says.

"I didn't mean _you_ you," Arthur answers, and Morgana _does_ try not to find his flustered expression endearing.

“What _did_ you mean, then, sire?” she asks; for all she knows that following this tangent is not going to help in her plans, opportunities to tease her brother have been rather thin on the ground since her failed takeover, and she doesn’t particularly want to let this one pass unseized.

"I meant ‘you’ _anyone_!" Arthur snaps, staring at her with anger in his eyes for all of the three seconds it takes for him to realise what he's said.

Then, to her great surprise, he blushes.

He doesn't go the same shade of scarlet Merlin had on his first visit - or any of the many other times conversation has drifted to his feelings for Arthur – but there is a definite pinkness to his cheeks. As if that wasn't gratifying enough, though, he is clearly lost for words for the first time since he sat down opposite her, and for what feels like many minutes, Morgana is more than happy to watch him flounder.

"Anyone?" she prompts, after the eternity it takes for his inexplicable embarrassment to become dull.

"You, Guinevere, Gaius, my knights, the other servants…" Arthur says, and for a moment the defeat in his tone just makes Morgana's delight at his discomfort even brighter, until, "Anyone," he repeats. "Anyone who isn't _me_."

X

Arthur doesn't realise quite how out of control his tongue has become until he sees how Cassandra is gawping at him, her mouth open and eyes wide, none of the warrior wariness she'd shown when he first entered her tent.

"I mean…" he starts, as Cassandra visibly tries to compose herself, then thinks _sod it_. There is no point in lying about this – Merlin – not when Arthur has as good as told her everything already, and he likes to think he has more dignity than to try it. He may as well come clean, and if this woman is as wonderful as everyone seems to think she is, she might actually be able to give him some better advice than the _ignore it until it goes away_ he keeps telling himself.

And, who knows? Maybe his absurdly optimistic daydreams have some basis to them, and Cassandra will tell him Merlin has mentioned having feelings for him on one of his many visits to her. "That is, I have..."

He falls silent again, this time because Cassandra seems to have sent composure the same way as he has evasion; she laughs, abrupt and bleak.

"Of _course_ ," she says, burying her head in her hands as she tries to muffle another burst of the laughter that sounds slightly insane. Arthur thinks her next words are, "Was it too much to ask for _something_ to go my way?" but since her face is covered, he's willing to believe she could be saying something else.

"I have _feelings_ for Merlin," Arthur finishes, because _of course_ could mean anything and he doesn't do things halfway, even if the word sounds utterly foreign as it leaps from his mouth.

"Yes," Cassandra says, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I realised that."

"Oh," Arthur replies, lapsing into a silence that cannot under any circumstances be described as comfortable. Then, after almost too long, the same insane hopefulness that made him willing to tell her in the first place strikes again. "And?"

" _And_ , Arthur Pendragon," Cassandra answers, sounding alarmingly like every sorceress ever who has used his full name to threaten him, "I think you should both stop wasting my time and start planning how to handle the problem of succession, because I have had quite enough of the pair of you whining about your feelings for one another."

"I…"

"I have had _enough_!" she says, in so effective a dismissal that even his father would be proud.

As Arthur leaves the tent, he's quite sure he hears her swear.

X

“Are you drunk?" Gwaine asks, and for a man who seems determined to make intoxication an art form, or at the very least an acceptable way of life, he sounds very judgemental. A blurry hand swoops in front of Morgana's face, snatching the mug from her before lifting it to an equally blurry face and taking a hearty swig. "Bleugh, what _is_ that?"

"Strong," Morgana answers, launching an uncoordinated attempt to retrieve her drink. "I'm closed. Go away."

The dumb git has the bad manners to grin at her, and even if he does refuse to come into focus Morgana knows he's being a smug prick. "What's the matter, Princess?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned, the title containing a layer of respect that really doesn't seem to fit, not when the last time she heard him use that word he was mocking her brother with it. "Come sit on Sir Gwaine's lap and tell him all about it."

"I could blast you into atoms," Morgana says, adding a glitter of gold to her eyes just for effect. "And then bring you back just to have the pleasure of doing it again."

"You'd miss me too much," he answers, taking another gulp of her vile, vile drink, and, damn him, he's right.

_Damn him_.

"I came here looking for a way to kill you all," she admits, brutally honest, but then it's not like he can't have worked that out already. "It was such a _good_ plan, too. You'd all come and blab your secrets and I'd learn the best way to sneak into the city and murder Arthur in his bed, and then you'd have to want me as queen because there'd be no one else. Except all I hear is rubbish about who is bedding whom and who _wants_ to bed whom and how the bread in the smallest fire in the kitchens won't rise properly and Gaius misses his girlfriend and her creepy pet and Leon thinks I'm not eating and I was going to break Arthur's heart by helping Lancelot win Gwen and now even that is ruined because my stupid brother was just here whining about how much he wants _Merlin_."

The expression on Gwaine's face is definitely one of realisation, even if it also looks a lot like he's standing on the wrong side of a fogged-up window, and he nods just the once. "Right," he says, placing the mug back in her hands. "The Arthur-and-Merlin drinking. You totally deserve this."

_I've just confessed my intention to slaughter you all,_ Morgana thinks, drunk and exasperated and not a little confused. _Do you really not care?_

Then again, if Gwaine did care, he'd have a knife at her throat by now, so maybe it's better that he doesn't, even if that means he's just another person who doesn't think she's any kind of threat, and it's embarrassing how unafraid of her they all are, how unconcerned they are about what she could be plotting. "You sound like you know what you're talking about," she says instead, an idle comment meant as much to change the direction of her own thoughts as it is his.

"Been there, done that," he says, slumping into the seat opposite her. "'Cept I was a little more invested than you are. You got any more of that stuff hidden away somewhere, or am I going to have to end this little pow-wow early to get myself something?"

Reluctantly, Morgana drags the bottle out from under the table, plonking it dead centre between them; Gwaine picks it up, using his teeth to yank the cork out, and gulps deeply, his throat bobbing each time he swallows. "I ever tell you about my sister?" he asks. "Because, seriously, Arthur is nothing compared to her…"

X

Gwaine talks until she feels better, then just carries on, making his way steadily through the bottle even as he seems determined never to let the bottom of her mug see the light. He talks until Arthur feels as petty a concern as he is, as irrelevant as a blade of grass, until at last their drinks are drunk and Morgana is fighting back yawn after yawn, her eyes dipping closed without permission.

"You get some sleep, Princess," he says, and again, it's far too respectful for someone she is sure ought to be on her brother's side. "Looks like you could do with it."

Morgana drags her eyes open, watching as Gwaine scoops up the empty bottle and her mug and puts them back in the chest they live in, then makes his way to the flap of the tent.

"Thank you, Gwaine," she says, the words slipping from her tongue before she can think to stop them.

"Welcome, Princess," he answers, turning back to her with another of those sunshine grins. "And this is just something to think about, but you're already in the city. You say you want to kill us all? Well, there ain't nothing stopping you…"

Morgana blinks again, a slow, sleepy blink, too tired and too drunk to find an answer to this, but then Gwaine doesn't seem to need one anyway.

"Makes me wonder," he continues, whisper-quiet, barely audible over the swish of the tent opening and the tiny noises of city nightlife breaking through the gap in her sound-quelling spell, "if maybe you aren't here for something else after all."

And then he's gone, and Morgana stops fighting sleep.

X

This, Arthur thinks, staring at the ceiling above his bed, is ridiculous. He's a grown man, practically the king, and he's far too old to be this on edge, this afraid. It's only Merlin, anyway, and even if Cassandra is wrong about him, about the probability of him returning Arthur's feelings, what is there to lose? It's only Merlin, and Arthur will be able to laugh it off if he takes this badly, if he doesn't respond the way Arthur hopes he will. It can be a joke, or a trick, and Arthur will be okay with that.

It's only Merlin.

It's only everything.

X

Merlin is late, _again,_ and tired, _again_ , and it seems he can't go a day without running into Gwen and Lancelot alone together somewhere. If he didn't know better, he'd say the pair of them were trying to break Arthur's heart, but Lancelot has his honour and Gwen her honesty, which means neither of them will act without some clear indication of Arthur being okay with it, so instead of going at it with wild abandon Gwen just _blushes_ and Lancelot _respects_ and the whole thing is utterly nauseating.

So. Merlin is late, tired, worried about how he's supposed to protect Arthur's heart on top of protecting the rest of him, and decidedly not in a good mood when he goes to take Arthur his breakfast this morning.

Of course, Arthur has just as much appreciation and, indeed, awareness, of Merlin's mood as he ever does, which is to say none at all; rather than lying half-awake in his bed until Merlin gets there, the prince has decided today that he should wake at the crack of dawn and spend the hours between then and now carefully burying any sign of the tidy room Merlin left him in last night.

"You're late," Arthur barks, his voice muffled by a shirt that seems to be in the process of being discarded and flung on the floor along with every other article of clothing he owns.

"Yes," Merlin agrees, placing Arthur's breakfast tray on the table and, sighing, prepares to start cleaning up a very similar mess to that he cleaned up yesterday. And the day before, and the one before that, and before that one, too… "Sometimes," he says, thinking of Cassandra's words; _If he's that unpleasant to work for,_ she’d said, _I really have no idea why you stay_ , and she's right. It may be his destiny to keep Arthur alive long enough for him to unite all of Albion under the Pendragon banner, but that doesn't mean he has to be his skivvy, and it certainly doesn't mean he has to like it. "Sometimes, Arthur," he continues, "I really hate working for you."

He's braced for a similar response from Arthur ( _sometimes,_ Mer _lin, I really hate having you work for me_ ), which is why Merlin is so stunned when Arthur, still shirtless, crosses the room in impossibly few strides and plants a long, slightly sloppy kiss on Merlin's lips.

X

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Merlin demands, his hands on Arthur's shoulder as he shoves him back, which isn't quite the response Arthur had been hoping for. "Arthur, this is… And Gwen! What about Gwen?"

"What about Guinevere?" Arthur repeats, the intonation deliberate enough that he's asking something completely different; just in case that isn't clear to Merlin, who seems to think this conversation requires unnecessary tangents, he specifies. "What does she have to do with this?"

"What does… Of course she has something to do with this, Arthur, you're in love with her."

Merlin's tone is so utterly matter-of-fact that Arthur actually finds himself considering his words, as insane as they may be (a slightly-longer-than-passing fancy once, yes, but that is quite a long way from being in love with her). "No," he says, the word long and drawn out. "No, Merlin. However close we were, we were never in love. I think I'd remember something like that."

"But…" Merlin manages, then sighs heartily, his expression suggesting he's reached some huge realisation. "You're under a spell again, aren't you?"

"A spell? Merlin, you idiot!" Merlin looks oddly wounded, though it's hardly something Arthur's never said to him before. "Idiot," he says a second time, softer, then places his hands on Merlin's shoulders and makes a second attempt at kissing him the way he's dreamt of for years.

This second go is ruined too, though this time not by Merlin. "Hang on!" Arthur says, stepping back from him. "What the hell do you mean, _again_?"

Fortunately for Arthur's ego, Merlin doesn't look too relieved by the distance Arthur has put between them; vaguely amused, perhaps, but not precisely pleased. "Did someone strange give you food? Wine? Some kind of, I don't know, charm for luck, or a gem, maybe even a new dagger or something?"

"No!" Arthur says, mildly offended. "How thick do you think I am, Merlin?"

In light of his desire to try a third time with the kissing, Arthur gives Merlin the benefit of the doubt about what he may or may not have muttered under his breath; it sounds like _Do you really want me to answer that?_ but, of course, it is not.

"I'm not enchanted, _Mer_ lin," he says, exasperated. "I didn't just wake up with a sudden desire to kiss you. I've been… _interested_ for a long time."

"But Gwen," Merlin says again. " _Gwen_. You turned down a princess so you could be with her."

"I turned down Elena so that I could be with someone I _love_ ," Arthur argues. "You were the one who decided that was Guinevere."

"But…"

"I was fond of her, Merlin, and she of me, but, again, neither of us was ever in love with the other. Do not worry so; what we do here betrays no one. Besides, have you seen her and Lancelot?"

Merlin's mouth flaps open and shut in a way that suggests speech, but since he's not actually achieving any kind of sound, Arthur decides it can't really be taken as any kind of protest. "I'm going to kiss you again," he says; on the off chance that Merlin's somewhat adorable bewilderment is something closer to offence, a warning is probably the best course of action. "If you wish to object for any _real_ reason, I suggest you do so now."

Merlin blinks at him, twice, his mouth agape, then flees, and that really wasn't the way Arthur saw this day going.

X

"Arthur kissed me," Merlin says, trying not to flail himself into pieces, storming from one side of the tent to the other, wild and insane, and he can feel her eyes on him, can feel her judging him with every step he takes. "I took him his breakfast and, rather than saying thank you or throwing something at me for being late, he just… grabbed me and… mwah!"

" _Mwah_?" Cassandra echoes, sounding very much amused, and yes, Merlin wasn't expecting her to be as freaked out by this as he is, but he'd quite like it if she didn't seem to be on the verge of peeing herself with laughter. "Really, Merlin, you are _such_ a child."

"Are you going to help me or not?" Merlin demands, fully aware that the petulant set of his lower lip is probably only proving her right. He flumps down in the chair opposite her, trying very hard not to just put his head in his hands and laugh hysterically. "This is important."

"I'm sure it is, dear," she says, this time adding an edge of patronisation to her amusement. "Sadly, I'm not really who you want to be seeing about improving your lacklustre kissing skills."

"My what?"

"Perhaps," she continues, like Merlin never said anything, "You should try Sir Gwaine; I've had an awful lot of people coming in here complaining about his _no repeats_ policy, which rather suggests he knows what he's doing."

"Lacklustre?"

"Or Guinevere, maybe? From what I’ve heard, she’s certainly not short of suitors."

Merlin blinks, taking a moment to absorb that, and then, "Oi!" he says, much more offended on Gwen's behalf than he was on his own. "Whatever you're implying about her, stop it."

Cassandra smirks, for a moment not at all kind, not the motherly seeming figure she usually is; for a moment, just a moment, there is ice in her eyes. "I apologise, Merlin," she says, and Merlin has no idea if she is genuinely sorry or not. "What is the problem, if it's not something to do with an excess of saliva?"

Merlin flinches, not wanting to talk about saliva, his or Arthur's (but, since she's bringing it up, there was rather a lot of it, though Merlin supposes he can put it down to nerves), with this woman who sometimes reminds him so strongly of his mother. He doesn't want to talk about it, and there is a much bigger issue at stake here.

"It's Arthur," he says. "It's Arthur, and it's me, and I've lied to him for so many years that I don't even know how to tell the truth anymore."

Cassandra's exasperation, whilst not unexpected, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "What is the problem, Merlin?" she repeats, rolling her eyes. "If you want my help, you will have to actually tell me what you want my help _with_."

"Arthur kissed me," he says again, because that really is all of it. "He kissed me, and I ran away."

"You ran away?" Cassandra asks, as disbelieving as Merlin would be if he was any part of this conversation other than the one he is. "You've been coming here for weeks, complaining about how awful he is to you and how you can't help loving him anyway, and when one of you finally works up the guts to do something about your ridiculous feelings for each other, you run away from him?"

"I had to," Merlin says, because it's true, and he's kept this secret for years, lived the lie day after day after day, betrayed so many people more than he can imagine being forgiven for. If Arthur might want what he does, if there's even a chance Arthur might feel as he does, Merlin can't have it, not with so much dishonesty weighing him down. "I won't ask you not to tell anyone, because you never have before and I think I can trust you now, with this. But it's not just a petty thing, this, about feelings and whatever. It's real and true, and I'm very sorry but just telling you this puts your life in danger, but… It's time.

"I have magic."

X

Morgana imagined, when she first began designing this plan, that she would learn some useful things, but weeks of listening to the drivel these people think is important has pretty much done away with that thought. This, though – this is precious, wonderful, the keys to the kingdom, and as much proof as she could ever ask for that Gwaine is wrong, that finding a way to regain her crown is still the one and only reason she's here.

"What?" Merlin asks.

"You should tell him," Morgana repeats, trying so hard to hide her glee; she has discovered the secret that will change everything, that will return her to her rightful place. Merlin is, it seems, far more of a traitor than she ever thought, betraying not only her with his poison and his deceit but also their kin: in following Arthur as he does, in working for a man that would see all of their kind dead, Merlin has proven himself a traitor to the very blood that runs through his veins. More useful than that, though, is his betrayal of Camelot's laws, the betrayal that Arthur will kill him for, as soon as he knows of it.

Arthur will see that Merlin is executed, even though doing so will destroy him more than anything Morgana could ever do to him, and without her charming, _legitimate_ brother standing strong and proud at the head of his people, the city will be hers for the taking.

"You don't understand," Merlin says. "Arthur… It's not his fault, but he's been raised to hate magic. His whole life, he's been told it's evil, that anyone who uses magic is evil, and maybe… I think, maybe if Morgana hadn't… If she'd still been here, still been the girl he grew up with, maybe there could have been a chance that the two of us could have persuaded him, but after what she's done, he'll never trust me."

Morgana flinches at the sound of her name, even if it's not the first time Merlin's mentioned her. It's the first time he's suggested they could have worked together, though, and, if she's completely honest, the first time she's ever thought things could have been even the slightest bit different.

If she'd said something to Arthur, if he'd known she was his sister, maybe… He's sided with her before, fought Uther's decrees on her behalf, and she knows that he loved her, just as she knows he loves Merlin, and perhaps Merlin is right, perhaps the two of them, together, could have changed things. Of course, that would have required Merlin to tell her of his magic, rather than palm her off on the druids. It would have required Merlin to be honest, compassionate, a decent human being, and did he really think she wouldn't have drunk willingly if she'd known she was responsible for the curse on Camelot, for all those deaths? Not for Uther, not even then, but for Gwen and Arthur and the man she'd once believed Merlin to be, for the girl who cleaned her fireplace, the stable-boy who cared for her horse, the children who'd played in the courtyard beneath her bedroom window?

If she'd known, Morgana would have done anything back then.

"How do you expect him to trust you, Merlin," she says, somewhat amazed by how kind she manages to sound, how friendly, how much she manages to treat him like a human being rather than the murderous hypocrite he is, "if you aren't willing to trust him in return?"

"I don't understand."

"Which do you think will bother him more?" Morgana asks, though she is banking on knowing the answer. "Finding out because you tell him, or finding out because you get caught? The lies or the magic?"

"I know," Merlin says slowly, agreeing with far less argument than Morgana was expecting. Far from setting her at ease, though, this causes her only concern; Merlin has clearly considered telling Arthur before now, has recited arguments against doing so as if by rote, but as soon as someone encourages him, he's much too keen to give in. "I know, but… I'm scared. I'm so, so scared."

_And now you know how I felt_ , Morgana thinks, trying not to feel too proud; she's seen too many powerful, intelligent sorcerers die in Camelot because of their pride, has learnt to her detriment how dangerous it can be. "So you _don't_ trust him," she says. "How interesting…"

"I do!" Merlin answers, and the adamant nature of his voice suggests he has no idea how much of a contradiction his words and his actions are to one another. "I would trust Arthur with my life."

"Prove it," Morgana orders, putting every ounce of her power into her voice and her spell, more than she has ever used before: _trust me, trust me, TRUST ME._ "Tell him."

"Yes," Merlin agrees, his gaze unfocused, and Morgana sees a glint of gold in his eyes, mirroring that which she knows must be in her own. It's not intentional, she thinks, but some instinctual ability he has and, unknown as his power was only a few minutes ago, there is something beautiful to it, a power that rises unbidden to protect the one who wields it, even if it isn't anywhere close to strong enough. It is beautiful, and even if she could forgive him for poisoning her, she can never forgive him for keeping this a secret. "Yes," he says a second time. "I'll tell him."

Only when he's gone does Morgana allow herself to smile. Today's work rather merits a drink, she thinks, and finds herself looking forward to Gwaine's arrival, though of course she can never tell him what she's achieved today.

X

In the wake of Merlin's sudden disappearance, Arthur finds himself wordless, motionless and (through no fault of Merlin's, more's the pity) shirtless. He's also entirely without appetite, unable to do anything more than stare at the breakfast platter Merlin has left on his table for him.

It's not that he finds it inconceivable that Merlin might not want him, since, contrary to what Merlin may believe, he isn't quite _that_ arrogant. He's familiar with the concept of someone not being interested, which is why he's made a point of never propositioning anyone without the courage to turn him down if they wish to, but Merlin… Merlin would never be too afraid to say no to him, _never_ , but, between Cassandra's exasperated conviction and his own instincts, Arthur didn't actually think he'd want to.

But he did, and that's what matters. Merlin is not interested, and Arthur is just going to have to grow up and deal with that.

First things first, though, he needs to tidy up the mess he made in his nervousness this morning, because Merlin is likely to want to spend as little time in his presence as possible from now on and, Arthur thinks, after pressing his unwanted suit, he ought to let Merlin have his way.

X

Once his chambers are as tidy as he can make them, Arthur pulls a shirt over his head and sits at his table, eating the food he has absolutely no desire to eat; to leave it would be both ungrateful and foolish, since, hungry or not, he understands the importance of beginning the day with a solid meal.

Even so, he has very little else to do and, whilst that might not have been a key factor in why Arthur chose today to act, it was certainly a welcome coincidence; now, though, it is entirely to his detriment, since at least training with his men or arguing with his father might provide him with a distraction of some kind. There are papers he perhaps ought to read over, some matter of state that he should attend to, but neither his mind nor his heart is in the right place for such dull tasks, and he'd much rather be hitting something.

He drags his gambeson over his head and fumbles with the laces at his neck until they resemble a knot of some kind or another, then slides into his mail and belts it at the waist; he can do without his gauntlets or plate, when his only opponent will be a wooden dummy, incapable of hitting back. It takes half the fun out of it, of course, but any diversion at all is welcome right now.

Finally, he puts his boots on and slides his sword into its sheath, throwing open the doors with all his usual flair and authority, and there is Merlin, shuffling uncomfortably, his hand raised to knock on a door for what may well be the first time he has done so in his life.

"Arthur," he says, looking almost as astonished as Arthur feels, though Arthur is not quite sure why; if either of them ought to be expecting to see the other in their current location, surely it would be Merlin, since it is Arthur's door he's standing outside of. "Arthur, sire, I need to speak with you, and I'd quite like it if you put the sword down first, please."

X

Merlin has never known Arthur to listen to him without argument, but when Merlin asks him to put aside his blade, he does so immediately and without protest. He sits just as readily when Merlin asks that of him as well, looking only a little bit wary when Merlin stays standing, trying not to fidget too much: this, telling Arthur of his magic, seemed such a good idea when Cassandra first suggested it, but now he is struggling to see it as anything other than insanity.

"What did you want to talk about, Merlin?" Arthur asks, when Merlin's silence has continued far longer than he is probably comfortable with. "If it is… If it is my reprehensible behaviour of this morning, you need not have any concern. I understand that my interest is not reciprocated, and that is perfectly acceptable. I would never require of you any service that is not freely given."

" _Prat_ ," Merlin answers, largely due to the sort of reflex he really wishes would stay dormant in situations like this. Not that he's ever actually been in a situation like this, a situation where he's about to deliberately reveal his magic to someone who can and maybe will kill him for it, but that really isn't the point, is it? "You make me do things I don't want to all the time."

Arthur flushes with what seems to be equal parts embarrassment and irritation, if his next words are any indication. "I expect you to do any and all tasks the average manservant would complete," he says, disdain colouring his tone. "Anything the likes of which I intimated I may appreciate this morning is beyond the requirements of your position, and not something I would have requested had I not thought my advances welcome."

"Oh, Arthur," Merlin says, shaking his head gently, fighting the urge to go to him, to convince him that whatever else might come between them, Arthur kissing him is certainly not any kind of obstacle. "I assure you, Arthur, your advances were entirely welcome."

At this, Arthur returns to looking surprised, and when he speaks it is in the tiniest of tiny voices. "You ran away."

"I ran away," Merlin concedes. "But I had a good, non-uninterested reason for it, if that helps? I mean, it probably won't, because I know what I'm about to say and I know you probably won't like it, but I am interested. I'm _definitely_ interested, I just need to tell you something first, because it's really not fair on you if I don't, and we… I need to tell you."

"So tell me, _Mer_ lin," Arthur says, and apparently something of just how _not_ uninterested Merlin is has reached him because he wouldn't be using that tone otherwise.

"Right," Merlin says, trying not to choke on his deep, fortifying breath; he succeeds, thankfully, but his confession comes out a lot more hoarse and a lot less certain than he'd been hoping it would. "I’ve got magic, Arthur."

Arthur frowns, more bewildered than furious, though Merlin suspects that will follow soon enough. "You’ve _what_?"

"Magic," Merlin repeats, trying not to use his _Are you really that slow?_ tone, mostly because he doesn't think it'll be all that conducive to him keeping his head. "I was born with it."

Of all the possible responses Merlin imagined his confession having (and he has had _years_ to imagine them), the one he gets has never once inched across his mind.

X

"Prove it," Arthur orders, hardly believing the words his mouth is saying; asking Merlin to prove he’s a sorcerer is like asking a river to prove it can run uphill.

"I don't understand."

"Well, _Mer_ lin," Arthur drawls, or tries to, though his uncertainty is proving itself something of a problem; Merlin cannot be a sorcerer, _cannot_ , even if Arthur can't fathom any reason he might tell this lie. "You are no more a sorcerer than I am a… than I am a farmer's wife."

"Well, _Ar_ thur," Merlin answers, in what is an unacceptably accurate imitation. "I suggest you get back to your husband, _goodwife_ , before he realises you've gone missing, because _I have magic_."

"And I say to you again, Merlin, prove it."

"Fine," Merlin says, and if he'd started this conversation with a kind of daring timidity, now he sounds brash, irritated, and far too doubt-inspiring, one hand resting at his side, the other clenched into a fist in front of him. "What proof would you like, Arthur? A light?"

His hand opens, an orb held within it that wasn't there a moment ago, glowing blue and orange and very, very bright, and whilst Arthur makes a point of avoiding familiarity with magic, he cannot help but recognise this: a cave full of spiders, a woman in red, a light that led him safely home.

"Is that proof enough, Arthur?" Merlin asks, closing his hand again, squeezing the sphere of light into nothingness, sparks that fall through his fingers, dying before they reach the floor. "Perhaps you'd prefer a fire, sire. It's cold in here, after all."

This time, Arthur sees his eyes flare gold, purer than the light that shone from his hand or the blaze of candles that suddenly surrounds them, the fire that bursts into being in the grate behind Merlin. It's barely present for a moment, but it's there, and it's most definitely proof enough.

He may have made a believer of Arthur, but Merlin seems not to be done yet. "Would you have me conjure you a rainstorm, my lord? Bread and fruit to carry you until lunchtime? A chair by the fire, a jug of wine?"

"I…" Arthur says, and there is a fierce ache in his chest, a churning in his gut, poison and betrayal in every breath he takes. "Merlin…"

"I'm sorry," Merlin says quietly, all his bravado gone, his eyes as blue as they've ever been, but Arthur knows now. Arthur has seen who he truly is, _what_ he truly is, and he will never be able to unsee it. "Your interest was never unwanted, Arthur, but… it would have been a lie, until you knew. I'm sorry."

He smiles, his eyes so full of sorrow, of _grief_ , that Arthur finds himself wishing to forgive him, to tell him that nothing, not even magic and nigh on half a decade of dishonesty, can come between them. He wants to, but he cannot, will not: he has been betrayed far too often of late, and magic… Some crimes are unforgivable, and those two are at the forefront of the list.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says again, and in the space between one blink and another, he is gone.

X

"Gods," Arthur gasps, crumpling like he's been punched in the gut, his lungs struggling for air. "Gods, I…"

_Merlin_ , he thinks, winded and lost, and he's trying to breathe, he is, but it's not working. Merlin, a sorcerer. Merlin, the man who has stood beside him for years, followed him into danger and out the other side again. Merlin, a liar and a fraud, a traitor worse than anyone Arthur has ever known, and…

"Gods," Arthur gasps a third time, his lungs seizing up again, this time bringing him to his knees. He kissed Merlin, has wanted to kiss him for ages, wouldn't have stopped at kissing if Merlin hadn't had a sudden moment of conscience, and…

_Who else knows?_ Arthur wonders suddenly. Who has Merlin told, who laughs behind Arthur's back at his blindness, his stupidity, his foolish, ridiculous, unforgivable trust?

Guinevere, maybe, except she can't lie to save her life, but then Arthur would have said that about Merlin this morning, Merlin and his sidelong glances, his silly, innocent grins. Lancelot and all his sneaky pow-wows with Merlin whenever Arthur isn't looking, Gwaine and his smugness, his absolute lack of manners and respect. Gaius, who clearly loves Merlin like a son, and Hunith, who treated Arthur like she was the mother he cannot remember despite obviously knowing what her son is.

Arthur has no idea who he's supposed to trust anymore.

X

Merlin is still running when he reaches Gaius' room, his legs aching from his lengthy sprint through the castle, and it's not that he's scared of Arthur, or of what he might do to him now that he knows. He told Cassandra that he trusts Arthur, and he does, he really does, but…

Gods, is Merlin terrified.

"What _is_ the matter, Merlin?" Gaius asks, as Merlin slumps against the door, panting for breath.

Merlin freezes, then forces himself to breathe deeply, dragging his heart rate down to something less frantic. "Nothing," he lies. "I'm fine. It's… I… Arthur's given me the day off."

Gaius gives him the eyebrow, as disbelieving as anything, which does nothing for the insanity of Merlin's pulse, but he seems to have decided that a day of Merlin's indentured servitude is worth more to him than the argument it'll take to get Merlin to come clean. "You can deliver these, then," he says, wafting a liver-spotted hand at a collection of phials on the table.

"Sure," Merlin says.

"I need some more rosemary, too," Gaius adds, "and our supplies of willowbark are looking a little low."

"Okay."

"And then," Gaius says pointedly. "Then, I think you can clean the leech tank, since you have nothing to do for Arthur."

"Of course," Merlin agrees, scooping up the phials and packing them into Gaius' medicine bag.

"Are you quite sure you're okay, Merlin?" Gaius asks, the look on his face sliding from disapproval to absolute concern. "I don't believe you've ever agreed to care for my leeches without an argument."

"Everything's fine, Gaius," Merlin lies again, and suddenly coming here feels like the stupidest thing he could possibly have done after telling Arthur the truth. He can risk his own life, because that's his to endanger if he so chooses, but this? Coming back here has put Gaius in danger, and that is utterly unforgivable.

"If," he adds hesitantly, trying to find the least suspicious phrasing he can manage, "I mean, if Arthur comes looking for me, tell him where I am. Don't – promise me you won't try lying to him. Just tell him."

"Merlin—"

"Promise me."

Merlin waits in silence as Gaius does the eyebrow thing again, feeling deeply uncomfortable, but not enough to confess. "I promise, Merlin," he says eventually. "If you promise me that whatever you're doing, you'll be careful."

"I promise," Merlin agrees easily; the damage is done, and he's already gone and done what, to Gaius, is probably the least careful thing ever. Then, just in case it's the last chance he ever gets to do so, Merlin darts across the room and gives Gaius a quick, desperate hug. "I love you, Gaius."

"Merlin, what—" Gaius starts, the closing door cutting off the end of his question.

X

_Well,_ Morgana thinks, gazing up at the figure silhouetted in her doorway, the late afternoon sun turning her brother's hair into a halo. _This_ is _unexpected._

Unexpected, but wonderful: however sweet her victory was before, it is made even sweeter by the knowledge that it will truly be her words and her sage counsel that breaks her brother's heart. Arthur will destroy himself, and she gets to be the one who gives him that final push into self-destruction.

X

"Back so soon, Arthur Pendragon?" Cassandra drawls, and on anyone else that'd probably sound unbearably smug. "I must say, I wasn't expecting to see you today – not after our little chat yesterday, at any rate."

Arthur hovers in the entrance to her tent, torn between taking the step forwards into her domain and running for his life. Entering means spilling his secrets to a complete stranger for the second day in a row, seeking the advice of someone he barely knows about a matter he shouldn't need advising on at all, but leaving… Leaving means his decision is made.

And it should be, of course. Arthur knows the law, knows this law above all others; he's fairly sure his father was warning him of the evils of magic before Arthur was even able to understand what he was saying, and he's continued to do so almost every day since then.

Magic is evil. It killed his mother, and has driven his sister insane. Those with magic have tried to destroy his kingdom time after time, have made attempt after attempt on his life and his father's. Magic is evil, and no one who uses it can ever be trusted. Magic is evil, and if Merlin is a sorcerer, he must be evil, too.

It's simply a matter of logic, a reasoned argument leading from A to B, and yet it feels more nonsensical than anything Arthur has ever heard. It feels like madness, and if Arthur has ever needed someone to talk to, it's now. In any other situation, he'd be listening to Merlin prattle on about nothing until he finally hits upon the thing bothering Arthur, but since the thing bothering Arthur right now is Merlin and he cannot share this with anyone else in Camelot until he's decided, this woman and her promise of discretion is as good as anyone. Better than anyone, perhaps, since she’s merely passing through.

"I have a problem," he says, taking one slow step forwards before crossing the space between them in only three strides. He sits heavily enough that the chair creaks under his weight, then stares, searching for words.

Cassandra clears her throat eventually, then does so a second time a minute later, demonstrating far less subtlety. "A problem?" she prompts. "If it's a matter of what goes where, I would assume that that's common sense."

"What goes—" Arthur splutters, finding himself on the verge of laughter. It's not funny in the slightest, of course, and if he lets himself break now he's not sure when it'll stop, but it’s so hard not to laugh. "I'm quite adept in that area, thank you. This is… It's complicated."

"Isn't it always, sire," Cassandra says, her tone dripping with irony.

Arthur grimaces, dropping his gaze from her raised eyebrow, then swallows audibly. "It's Mer…" he starts again, then realises coming straight out with it isn't the right way to go about this, not when this woman seems not unfond of Merlin.

"It's… There's this man, a friend of mine, and…" _Gods_ , Arthur thinks, _this is_ _ridiculous_ , possibly one of the stupidest things he's ever tried to do, but Cassandra is looking at him with eyes that are wide and guileless, her expression innocent, trusting, giving Arthur no reason to believe she sees through his explanation. "He has a friend, my friend does, and he likes him as – as something more than a friend. He – they’ve been friends for years, they have, and my friend thought he knew everything there was to know about his friend. He knew everything, and he trusted him, and then… my friend acted on his feelings, only to discover that…”

Arthur’s voice breaks on that last word, trails off into the same kind of nothingness he has inside him, the nothingness that leaves him blank and confused, torn between his duty and his feelings.

“To discover that…?” Cassandra prompts.

“He discovered that his friend is a traitor,” Arthur says, and whilst the bitterness of it doesn’t surprise him, the hurt does. It shouldn’t, maybe, when what he’s just told Cassandra is true, when this morning he would have said he could and did trust Merlin above any and all other people in his life, but it does. It surprises him, and it hurts so much it might actually kill him. "His friend is a traitor and… he's a sorcerer. My friend's friend. He conjured a light and wine and all sorts of other things right in front of him, and there’s no denying it, no pretending it isn’t true. Not that anyone would want to pretend proven treachery wasn’t true, but even if they did, they can’t. He knows, and there are laws, and evidence, and – it can’t be forgotten, you understand. He proved he’s a sorcerer. To his friend. To _my_ friend," Arthur adds, every other word broken, punctuated by the ache in his heart.

"And…?" Cassandra asks.

"And what?" Arthur answers, because for all she's looking at him like she's expecting something, Arthur has no idea what it is.

"And why are you here?" she finishes, her expression bland and a little confused.

"Why am I—" Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm here because I want advice. Isn't that what you _do_?"

"Oh, it is, but I'm not sure why you want – or, for that matter, need – my advice." Cassandra smiles, kind and sincere, leaning back in her chair a little.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Clearly not."

"I'm confused," Arthur says. "I don't know what to do."

"Surely that, _sire_ , is what ought to be obvious."

"But…" Arthur starts to counter, though of course he knows there isn't room for debate, really. There are no arguments, no exceptions, and he knows this, but. But. "My friend really likes him."

"Well, in that case…" Cassandra drawls, half a smile on her face. "Shall we start letting off other criminals, too? Let's just forgive the thieves and murderers, shall we, because I'm sure _someone_ loves them."

"It's not the same."

"It's not the same because it's you, or because it's you and Merlin?"

"I…"

"Come now, Arthur," she says, and now she's quite definitely smug, no question about it. "Did you really think I couldn't see through your _friend of a friend_ thing? Have you any idea how many girls I've had in here, blushing through tales of how their sister's cousin's friend's aunt's niece has feelings for a boy who doesn't even know she's alive?"

"Why did you let me continue, then?" Arthur asks, mystified enough that that seems the bigger issue for now.

“I was hardly going to interrupt the crown prince, was I, even with the ridiculous story you’ve just spun me,” Cassandra says, offering him a shrug and a smirk. "That aside, however, I still see no reason for you to require my advice. Surely you know the penalty for sorcery, given how hard you and your father have worked to enforce it."

"But…"

"The law can be hard," Cassandra says, and although there is an edge of something else buried under the sympathy in her voice, Arthur cannot identify it, nor can he bring himself to dwell on it. "It is hard, Arthur, but it is the law, and as the acting king, you are honour-bound to obey it."

"I know," Arthur says, because her words are so rational, so obvious, that distrusting her is impossible. "I know, but…"

"There are no buts, Arthur Pendragon," she says, echoing his thoughts. "There is only one punishment for the practice of sorcery, and it is your duty to carry it out."

"It is," Arthur agrees, feeling entranced, enraptured, held in place by her kindness and her reason, by the logic she uses that so resembles his own, and by the compassion she clearly has for him. "It is, but…"

"The law is the law. I'm sorry, my lord, but however fond you may be of this sorcerer, you _must_ turn him in."

_You're right,_ Arthur intends to say, though the words barely need saying; Cassandra is wise, the sort of advisor every king should wish for, and Merlin… Merlin is a liar, and a sorcerer, and far more of a traitor than the sister Arthur never knew he had. Merlin has made a fool of him, made a mockery of his trust, and if the law requires his death, Arthur will not break it.

_You're right,_ he intends to tell her, but what comes out is quite the opposite.

"You're _wrong_."

X

"I beg your pardon," Morgana says. Her disguise is faultless, her spell beyond comparison, and no one has _ever_ refused to trust her and to do what she says: her brother cannot be that strong, cannot _possibly_ be immune.

"You're wrong," Arthur repeats, and Morgana thinks the first time was instinct but this… Now, there is enough hesitation to it that she can tell he's thinking about it, that he means it this time.

"I'm wrong?" she asks, her tone honey-sweet, redoubling her concentration on her spells; she doesn't think it's her magic slipping, but just in case… "It is not my suggestion, my lord, but the requirement of the law."

"Then the law is wrong!"

Morgana stares at him, confused beyond words, almost beyond thought. She knew her brother was fond of Merlin, but if learning that what she'd taken to be simple friendship is actually more akin to love surprised her, this is practically paralysing. "And what will you do about it, then?" she asks, when the scattered strands of her mind finally reassemble themselves enough for speech to be an option, and her voice is softened by surprise, maybe something closer to wonder.

"I don't know," Arthur says, sounding so lost that Morgana cannot help but reach for his hand. Of all the feelings she was prepared for Camelot to bring back to her, this sense of alliance with Arthur is not one of them; they have been enemies too long, she would have said, and Arthur chose his path too many years ago, chose their father's path too many years ago. It is too late to go back, for both of them, and yet his conviction, the strength of will it takes to overrule her enchantments… Morgana has never missed him, never wept for the future they could have had, she and Arthur and Gwen and Merlin, _their_ Camelot, but right now it feels like she might. "I know I _should_ hate him, I know I _should_ turn him in, but…"

"But you love him," Morgana finishes.

"But I love him," Arthur agrees, so resigned, so utterly broken by this admittance, and Morgana almost hates that she wished for this. "I love him, and it will destroy me to watch him burn."

"Then don't," she says, and this time there is no magic to it, just a voice that could be hers, truly hers, speaking to him from behind the walls of her disguise, speaking to him a contradiction of her earlier words that, mercifully, he will barely even notice. "Do you believe he means you harm, this sorcerer of yours?"

"I don't understand."

"Well," Morgana says, still cradling Arthur's hand in both of hers. "Has he changed since yesterday? I don’t claim to be an expert, but the sort of magic you say he showed you… Surely a man cannot learn that overnight?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, just looks at her, his expression that of a man gone beyond his map, lost in a land of dragons and the unknown.

"Would he have harmed you yesterday?" she prompts, waiting until understanding begins to dawn on him before continuing. "Has anything truly changed, but for the fact that you know more than you did before, but for the fact that he has _let_ you know more?"

"He's still Merlin," Arthur says, the look in his eyes just as far away but no longer _beyond_ , no longer lost but found; he has the answer he sought from her, from Cassandra, and how strange it is that it is an answer Morgana can finally be at peace with giving. "Sorcerer or not, he will no more harm me than he would himself."

"Then my advice to you is only this, Arthur Pendragon," she says, offering her brother a smile more genuine than she could ever have imagined he'd deserve. "Make the choice you can most easily live with. Take the road that lets you sleep at night. Your secret, and Merlin's, is forever safe with me."

X

After a day of misery and anguish and completing tedious tasks for Gaius, Merlin returns to his room, his neck aching from all the looking over his shoulder he's been doing. Gaius has food on the table, his own plate cleared and Merlin's long since gone cold. Merlin gives it a quick blast of magic to reheat it, ignoring Gaius' concern; after coming clean with Arthur, he really has no more need to hide it.

Whatever is coming for him will come, and not using his magic now won't do anything to change that fact.

Whatever is coming for him, Merlin is ready for it, and not a moment too soon; no sooner has he sat down than there are footsteps in the hall outside, the door creaking as it’s pushed open.

"So," Arthur says, swanning into Gaius' room like he hasn't a care in the world. Merlin flinches, forgetting all of his bravado about being prepared as he waits for the guards to follow him, but Arthur is alone, closing the door behind him and leaning carefully against it. "So, my sister wasn't the last sorcerer brave enough to live under my father's nose…"

Gaius' eyebrows reach for the moon, the expression on his face shocked enough that Merlin almost regrets not having told him that Arthur knows. He knows the physician would have advised him to leave the city, run and never return, just as he knows that is something he could never do, but if he'd thought, he could have saved Gaius what looks to be something close to a heart attack.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sire," Gaius says, making a valiant effort at deception.

"Funny," Arthur replies, "I think Merlin does."

"It's okay, Gaius," Merlin says, before his former guardian can have another go at lying. "He knows. I told him."

"Ah," says Gaius. "Ah."

Arthur smiles, sort of. "Quite," he agrees, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'm sure you both know the punishment for the practice of sorcery, and for harbouring a sorcerer."

"We know," Merlin says, trying not to let his voice shake too much, though his fear is not for himself but for Gaius; Merlin is prepared to face his own death, to die at Arthur's hand if it is what is required of him, but not Gaius. "Arthur—"

"In that case," Arthur continues, speaking over Merlin like he never even opened his mouth. "You better get back to work before someone starts asking questions, _Mer_ lin."

"Prat," Merlin says, sliding his arms into his jacket and his feet into his boots.

"Did you really think anything'd change?" Arthur asks.

_A little_ , Merlin thinks. _Maybe._

"Never, sire. Never."

“Gaius,” Arthur says as Merlin makes his way to the door, “I trust you will keep as quiet about this as you have until now. Is that understood?”

“Of course, sire,” Gaius says, bowing far too deeply for a man of his age, even as he looks gravely concerned about allowing Merlin to follow Arthur from his room. “Thank you, sire.”

X

"Come in," Morgana calls, though Gwaine hasn't actually knocked yet, wasn't really planning on it at all. He obeys anyway, twisting the sign hanging above the tent flap from _Come in_ to _Please come back later_ , then spares a few seconds to lace the door closed behind him.

"Evenin', Princess," he says, sitting opposite her and kicking his feet up onto the table, taking care to wipe his boots first (he learnt his lesson the last time, when she shoved him off his chair for getting mud everywhere). "What secrets have you got for me today, then? What great misery was your brother whining about this time?"

She smiles at him, and for the first time, Gwaine thinks that whatever madness once lurked in the depths of her eyes is gone; as beautiful as she was yesterday, in her sanity she is even more so. "I can't tell you, I'm afraid. Sworn to secrecy, you know."

"And how's that different to any other day?"

"This time," Morgana says, "this time I actually meant it."

Gwaine gives her his most begging eyes, swinging his legs down and leaning in, elbows on the table. "Please?" he says. “How about I guess, and you tell me when I’m right?”

"No, Gwaine," Morgana says, smiling but firm. “You can guess all you like, but I still won’t tell you.”

"Pretty please? How about you tell me and then enchant me to forget?"

"Grow up, Gwaine."

"Never," he answers, giving up on pleading, swapping the eyes for a teeth-baring grin. "Aren't you going to tell me anything, though? Not even the tiniest morsel? I'll make it worth your while," he winks.

"In that case..." Morgana says, an edge of glorious, gorgeous ferocity to it, and Gwaine feels momentarily victorious. "Still no."

"You, Princess," Gwaine laments, "are just as cruel as your brother, sometimes."

Morgana laughs, light and pure, so genuine that Gwaine carries on, never wanting her to stop. "You know what, I really regret wiping my boots now."

X

 

"So, back to work as usual, right, sire?” Merlin says, once Arthur has led them to his chambers and secured the door behind them. He’s smiling nervously, his hands fidgeting as if they’re eager for armour to polish or linens to fold.

Arthur stares at him, somehow managing to slide into one of the chairs at his table without taking his eyes off Merlin, and it isn’t that he doesn’t trust him, not really, it’s just that… Arthur has no idea what it is. "There is nothing _usual_ about you, Merlin," Arthur says, “and that’s the problem.”

“Problem?” Merlin asks. “I wasn’t sure there was a problem anymore.”

“You weren’t sure being a sorcerer in Camelot, in my service – in my _bed_ , maybe – was a problem?”

Merlin swallows, and just as Arthur has no words to explain the reason for his sudden wariness around Merlin, he is lost when it comes to describing the look on Merlin’s face, something that lies between hope and fear and yet seems to resemble neither of them. “But you said to Gaius that—”

“I am not concerned with Gaius right now, Merlin. Do you really think I mean to punish the man? Gods know he’s suffered plenty in dealing with you all this time for the rest of us.” Arthur’s own words remind him of one of his most genuine concerns, the first to follow the terrifying realisation that Merlin is not who he thought he was. “He _is_ the only one who knows of your... condition, right?”

“It’s not a disease, Arthur,” Merlin snaps, his outburst looking set to lead him far from Arthur’s question.

“That’s not the point, Merlin. Is Gaius the only one who knows? Besides your mother, I assume?”

Merlin’s eyebrows pinch towards his nose in a voiceless, puppy-like plea, and Arthur feels anger growing with every name that crosses his mind, every person who might know, not just of Merlin’s magic, but of how badly he’s been deceived by someone who’s with him as much as his own shadow.

“Who else, Merlin? Just tell me the names before I imagine it’s the whole of Camelot.”

“Really just Gaius, Arthur. Gaius and one of the knights, but only because he saw me do it. I’ve never told anyone but you, and he—”

“Which one, Merlin?”

“He would never tell a soul, and he was just meaning to protect me, and—”

“Which one, Merlin? If you say Gwaine, so help me I will—”

“It’s not Gwaine. It’s... promise me you won’t do anything to him!”

“ _Who_ , Merlin?”

“Lancelot,” Merlin breathes, moving his hands to his lips as if to catch the whisper of the name and take it back.

Arthur’s shoulders relax, though. “Lancelot,” he says, as if he’s tasting the name. He thinks for a moment, realising Lancelot wouldn’t laugh at a fool, much less at his prince, and he’s relieved. “All right. Lancelot, and Gaius, and that’s it.”

“And you, my lord. That’s it,” Merlin says, meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“And me.” Despite his best efforts against it, Arthur feels a surge of warmth at being included in this private circle, a protector of Merlin’s life, his secret, along with his mother, his guardian, and the noblest knight he’s ever known. It feels like a privilege, one he’s glad to have, even if it was his due, and to be the only person Merlin has ever actively told of his magic… It _is_ a privilege.

Apparently sensing this softening of Arthur’s attitude, Merlin approaches Arthur, and it’s only in this sudden moment of proximity that Arthur realises he has been sat in the presence of a sorcerer, has had to look up in order to meet Merlin’s eyes. Only yesterday he would have thought it impossible that he could relax whilst finding himself face-to-face with someone he knows for sure to be a magic user, and yet today, it makes perfect sense.

Still, with Merlin this much closer to him, Arthur finds himself standing, ready for something, though he’s not sure what yet. “And of your – your feelings for me. Who knows of that?”

Merlin smiles at this question, abashed, his chin falling to his chest as he half-ducks away from Arthur’s gaze. “Probably everyone,” he says. “But I never told them that, either.”

“And our kiss? Does Lancelot somehow know about that? Or Gaius?” Arthur shuffles slowly towards Merlin, closing the remainder of the space between them.

“No,” Merlin laughs, still looking down, but reaching gingerly for the hem of Arthur’s tunic. When he’s not pushed away, he looks up to find Arthur gazing at him, a hint of a smile across his parted lips. Merlin leans in and gently tries a kiss on them, then pulls back to check Arthur’s response, somehow under the impression that there is even a chance it might not have been welcome.

In answer, Arthur lets his hands find Merlin’s waist and then pulls him into a proper kiss, deep and luscious and slow. They melt into one another over long minutes of clinging together tightly, swiping licks into each other’s mouths, searching out unknown parts of each other like drowning men searching for air. Merlin looks devastated when they finally part far enough for Arthur to see him, his pupils large enough to drown in, and if Arthur isn't entirely mistaken his irises aren't quite as blue as they were before. It takes all of Arthur's control not to fall straight back into him, taking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs against the cold flagstones, but he has just enough restraint to manoeuvre them to the bed in clumsy strides without breaking their embrace.

“This isn’t over, Merlin,” Arthur says, taking the opportunity afforded by his statement to pull his tunic over his head.

Merlin eyes Arthur’s tented trousers and quirks an eyebrow. “I should hope not.”

“Not _this_ , you idiot,” Arthur adds, gesturing sloppily between them with the hand that’s not struggling to untie a pesky red neckerchief. “The discussion!”

“The discussion about how you forgive me and all is well?” Merlin says, putting Arthur’s free hand on his warm, slim waist again. “How we’re back to everything as usual?” He plants a quick kiss on Arthur’s neck that leads to a much longer one.

“Does this seem usual to you?” Arthur asks in a voice slightly more hoarse than a moment ago. He helps Merlin out of his tunic and runs his hands greedily over the length of his back.

Merlin’s hands are equally busy, but they still manage to make short work of Arthur’s trousers, letting them fall to the ground, and for all that Merlin has undressed him many times, it has never been like this. His hands have never lingered this way, never roamed Arthur's skin the way Arthur so desperately wants him to, never been greeted by Arthur’s hardened cock trying to rut against him. “No, but I’m really hoping this is the _new_ usual,” Merlin says, eyes wide and eager.

“Nothing is ever usual with you, Merlin. I thought we covered this.” He tilts Merlin’s chin up to meet his gaze, cannot resist pressing yet another kiss to Merlin's lips. “Why don’t we move on to something else now,” he says, lying on the bed and pulling Merlin on top of him.

“Mmm,” is the only answer Merlin makes as they kiss harder, their hips rolling into each other steadily. The thin layer of Merlin’s trousers can only be suffered for so long before Arthur starts struggling to get them off, eventually needing Merlin’s help with the laces. He can see Merlin battling the urge to mock his ineptitude right now, thinks he might even let him get away with one remark, but it seems Merlin can’t bear to delay the feeling of skin on skin any more than Arthur can. Instead, he licks his palm and takes their heavy, slick cocks in hand, immediately rubbing delicious groans out of Arthur.

X

Morgana cannot sleep that night, wondering how Arthur is really dealing with being in love with a sorcerer, harbouring a sorcerer under Uther’s nose. She wonders again what it could have been like for her. She and Arthur could have spent long nights planning how to help her, how to make magic legal in Camelot.

She shakes off the thought, realising they were never stay-up-all-night-sharing-secrets friends, and her irritation is somewhat renewed. More time without a customer, though, (as it is yet the small hours of the morning,) leaves her to imagine what would have happened if she had perhaps trusted Gwen instead. They _did_ confide in each other – that is, until they didn’t. Was it Gwen’s crush on Arthur that created the distance, or Morgana’s discovery of her own magic? It was no use asking now, but if that friendship hadn’t been broken, maybe then there could have been hope.

The sun rises, and there are no alarm bells or havoc in the lower or upper towns to indicate a burning at the stake – not that Morgana had expected one, but it was a possibility nonetheless – and she lets out a heavy breath and ties the curtained doorway of her tent open, hoping someone will come in with news from the castle. Until that happens, she will pace slowly in front of the other merchants’ stalls, idly playing with trinkets and nodding politely at passersby.

“Ma’am,” she hears a voice say after a while. “I just came by to thank you for helping me curb my husband’s drinking.”

Morgana remembers the middle-aged woman easily. She had been suffering in silence for months, and Morgana had taken a genuine interest in the woman’s tales of poverty and hardship. “No need to thank me, Margaret,” she says. “I’m just glad things are working out better for you. You didn’t deserve to struggle so much.”

“I do want to thank you, though,” Margaret says, earnestly nodding and holding her hand out for Morgana’s. “I kept urging Robert to find work, and that was only making things worse. I hadn’t realised that if the work came from me, he would reject it. I got the cobbler to ask him to help out, just like you said, and he feels really needed in the town again. Oh, I’m so grateful!”

“It was really no trouble,” Morgana says, beginning to step away to bid her farewell. She takes a few steps towards her tent and casts a glance up the road to the castle. In an eerie repetition of Gwen’s first visit with her, a lilac-clad figure is walking gracefully towards her, carrying a basket. Her long dark hair flutters behind her in the breeze, and she smiles at Morgana in her usual, easy way. She seems made for morning strolls in the sun. _Not at all like me_ , Morgana thinks, as she smiles back. She’s feeling more out of place than she has since she arrived in Camelot, and this picturesque walk of Gwen’s seems to amplify her difference.

“Cassandra,” Gwen calls out when she’s close by. “So nice to see you out in the sun! Your tent is cozy, but it’s nice to take in the air on a morning like this, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Morgana thinks about asking her inside, despite Gwen’s comment, since she would like to know something of what’s happened with Arthur, but she decides there likely isn’t much to know if Gwen is so carefree. She’s also obviously not buzzing with news of any sort.

Gwen’s smile deepens a little shyly in the pause, and she holds out her basket filled with cheese, some smoked meats, and cider.  “Here,” she says. “To thank you.”

“To thank me? Whatever for?”

“For listening,” Gwen says, “and being a friend. It had been a long time since someone let me blather on so much! It helped me a lot, and I appreciate it, though I’m sorry for quite how much I said.” Her smile is so serene it can hardly belong to one who _blathers_ , Morgana thinks, but then, those layers were always part of Gwen’s charm.

“It was no trouble at all, Gwen. Does this mean that you and your noble knight have made some progress?”

Gwen’s blush is more than enough of a response, but she utters a low, happy, “We have.”

“Well, congratulations, then. I expect I won’t be seeing much more of you, then?” Morgana asks, seeing her opportunity. “Unless, perhaps there is anything going on at the castle that would be good to talk about?”

“Oh, no. Things at the castle are fine. I think the prince even called off training this morning because it’s such a nice day. I’ve packed another basket just like this, actually, for Lancelot and I to have a picnic.”

“That sounds lovely, Gwen. I won’t keep you. Thank you so much for the gifts.”

“Goodbye, Cassandra.” Gwen waves as she heads back towards the castle, or more likely her home, Morgana thinks, to gather her picnic supplies. She waves to Gwen in return and heads into her tent, falling into her chair exhausted, despite the morning hour.

X

It takes several hours, but Gwaine shows up eventually, as Morgana expects. He saunters in, clad in a loose, clean tunic and breeches, clearly enjoying the leisureliness of the day.

“Well, well, Sir Gwaine. I’m surprised you aren’t headed straight for the tavern on this rare day off you’ve been granted.”

“You’ve usually got a drop or two in here to share, no? If you prefer, I could leave you to your—”  He gestures towards the basket in front of her, then notices the apples. “—Hey, don’t mind if I do!” He grabs one from the basket and bites into it with relish.

“That happens to be part of my ‘thank you’ basket from Gwen,” Morgana protests weakly. “But go ahead. Help yourself.”

Gwaine plants himself in the chair opposite her, legs spread wide on either side of it. He smiles even as he’s chewing, but he still conveys his roguish charm, and Morgana shakes her head with a laugh.

“So, how did you know I have the day off?” he asks.

“The way you look, for one. You’re clearly well rested and…" She sniffs theatrically, grinning at him. "Yes, I do believe you may have bathed, for once.” She lets the insult register, then adds, “Besides, Guinevere told me Arthur canceled training today.”

“He did,” Gwaine says with a knowing smirk.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Maybe.” Gwaine focuses on his apple, testing her patience, clearly enjoying the deepening of her breaths in response to him being utterly infuriating.

“And maybe I should poison the rest of that apple.”

Gwaine stops mid-chew. “Fair enough, Princess.” His gaze shifts for a moment, then he shrugs and keeps eating. He talks through his last few bites. “Seems Arthur is releasing his tension in much better ways this morning than swinging a mace at Percival – who’s grateful, by the way, that you helped him keep the others from going sleeveless with their armour, too.”

Morgana scoffs in annoyance. “There’s a little too much of that going around this morning.”

“What, shagging? Who else have you seen today?” He eyes her up and down, leering. “Whoever it was, they definitely didn’t do it right.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” she says, standing up and pulling her empty bags out from the corner. “And how you eat an apple isn’t even the half of it.” She puts the bags on her cot and starts folding up her few belongings.

“Princess, you can’t be leaving now!  We’re having such a good time!”

“Gwaine, there is no _we_ , and _having a good time_ was not the point of this trip at all.”

“Having a good time should be the point of every trip," he counters, then seems to sober slightly. "But, just supposing it isn't, what was?” he asks, sounding more sincere than she’s ever heard him.

“I told you. Information. Revenge. You know these things. You know who I am, Gwaine.”

“I do, and I know that that may have been part of it, or so you thought, but there was more, wasn’t there?”

“The _more_ ,” Morgana says, turning around to face him now, “is exactly why I’m leaving. Even Percival wants to thank me. Arthur is happier than ever, not weaker. All I’ve done is help precisely where I wished to hurt, Gwaine, don’t you see that?”

He steps closer to her. “I do, m’lady, but I don’t think that’s so bad, and I don’t think you even mind all that much. C’mon, though. Let’s at least drink to the fact that you haven’t killed any of us. I’m grateful for that, even if no one else realises they should be.”

That wins a little smile from her. “I’m still angry, though.”

“Will it make you feel any better if I tell you they’ll all be bickering and fretting about new nonsense tomorrow? Even as I was walking over here, I heard Merlin and Arthur fighting over blankets already. Someone should really tell them to shut the window if they’re planning on being that loud.”

“Rather you than me,” Morgana says. She gets up and takes the cider from the basket. “Shall we, then?” she asks, waving the bottle at him.

“I knew you’d ask eventually.” Gwaine smiles, then is struck in the head with another apple.

“You knew nothing,” she laughs. “You’re just always hoping for a drink.”

“You won’t let me hope for anything else!”

She grabs another apple, readying to throw it at him, and he ducks. “You’re learning,” she mocks with  an approving grin, then takes a juicy bite.

X

“So no training today, hmm?” Merlin teases as they’re finally getting dressed for the day. “What else are you going to excuse yourself from?”

“Well I’m certainly not excusing you from anything.” Arthur gestures towards his cupboard for Merlin to get him a tunic.

“Now, why would I want you in a shirt when you look so much better out of one?”

“Because it’s your job, maybe?” Arthur retorts.

“Oh? Are you going to fire me? That’s really not a good idea. I happen to know the prince very well, and I don’t think he’d stand for it.” Merlin admires the bare chest in front of him, and doesn’t do much else.

“Perhaps you’d prefer I go naked through the castle? What’s to be gained from that, Merlin?”

“By me?” Merlin considers. “Very little.  All right, but I get to pick.”

“You always pick.”

“But today I get to _obviously_ pick what I _obviously_ want to see you wearing. See the difference?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m not surprised. I am the brains in this relationship, after all.” He digs a thin white tunic out of Arthur’s shelves and then is greeted with an insulting expression rather than actual insult.

“What?” Merlin says. “Would you rather say that I’m the looks?”

Arthur can’t maintain his fighting face, and before he knows it, Merlin's being kissed again, the shirt crumpling in his grasp as he sinks into Arthur's embrace. They're well on their way back to bed when there's a soft knock at the door. Merlin peels himself reluctantly away from Arthur, forcing himself back to the sort of distance any visitor might expect to see between the prince and his manservant. He hands Arthur his tunic and nods, hoping he looks something close to respectable.

"Come in," Arthur calls, tugging his tunic over his head and looking quite as unhappy about the interruption as Merlin feels.

The door creaks as it opens, Gwen stepping into the room with a smile on her face that suggests the pair of them haven't been anywhere near as discreet as Merlin might have hoped.

“Sire?” she says, bobbing her head in respect. "I didn't mean to interrupt or anything, but Sir Leon said you wished to see me?”

“I did," Arthur answers, and Merlin wonders if the tiny emphasis he places on the past tense is deliberate or not. "Merlin is of the opinion that we ought to thank Cassandra for helping – em, various people in Camelot. She deserves a reward of some sort for her service. Do we know what she likes?”

“Yes,” Merlin pipes up, and if he's trying to work out how Arthur's mumbled _We should get her a fruit basket_ shortly after round three last night suddenly became his idea, he's not going to let on. That part of Arthur is his, and he's quite happy to keep it to himself. “She loves Cook’s sweetbread and cider. It’s the only thing she’s asked for since she got here. It’s her favourite, I guess.”

Gwen’s eyebrows furrow. “Like Morgana,” she says, a touch of confusion to her voice, like she too has tried and failed to place the familiarity of Cassandra's gaze, and for a moment Merlin wonders, weighing the possibility in his mind. He can see the others doing the same, can see their consideration and the same abrupt dismissal he reaches himself. Morgana would sooner see them all dead than happy, after all, however painful that fact still is.

"Like Morgana," Arthur agrees, long after the silence has grown awkward. "But they're hardly uncommon things to be fond of, are they not?"

“True,” Merlin says, "and Cook's are particularly good, so…"

"A fitting gift," Arthur declares. "We have much to thank Cassandra for, after all." He smiles, his gaze brushing Merlin's skin, soft and yet weighty; Merlin feels a blush rising to his cheeks, and is almost grateful when Arthur clears his throat and looks away from him. "Guinevere, would you please tell Cook that I request enough sweetbread and cider for a small family to enjoy, and then get it to Cassandra for me?”

“Of course, my lord.” Gwen’s brow hasn’t entirely relaxed after the brief mention of her former mistress, but it now seems more out of wonder than concern; Merlin is quite sure he and Arthur have given away far more than they were intending to this soon, but at the same time, he finds himself incapable of caring.  “I’ll see to it. Is there anything else?”

Arthur looks back at Merlin, and a grin spreads across his face. “Since you're offering, I suppose you can have a dinner tray sent up here in an hour or two," he says, his eyes still on Merlin.

"Will that be for one or two, sire?" Gwen asks, her smile uncharacteristically wicked, and Merlin's face flares even hotter. "And do try to keep the noise down this time, boys," she adds, looking quite amazed at her own daring, then darts from the room before either of them can think up a response.

X

The bottle of cider lasts through Morgana’s packing, and their conversation stays barbed but without bite. He's a good sparring partner, and she'll miss that, just as she already misses conversations she never got to have with him, and that she now never will.

“Are you sure you need to leave today? There’s more cider where that came from.”

“Gwaine, it’s time for me to go. I miss my magic.”

“You have your magic.”

“Fine,” Morgana concedes, “I miss being able to use my magic without fear of being decapitated.”

“I can understand that. But maybe Arthur will change his mind. You can help with that, you know.”

“I don’t think so, Gwaine,” she says. Her thoughts drift to Arthur and Merlin, and the lack of alarm bells. “It’s not even Arthur I’d need to convince, yet. Besides, even if he did change the laws against magic when it’s his time, my powers aren’t the only thing that stand between us. I’ve chosen my path. I miss practicing magic. I miss Morgause. I miss being me.”

“I understand, I really do,” Gwaine says, helping her with one of her bags as they walk out of the tent.  “But isn’t this a little bit of you being you, too?”

_Oh, Gwaine,_ she thinks, his faith more piercing than any weapon ever could have been. “Perhaps," she grants eventually. "But only of who I was.”

“Well, maybe I like who you were.”

She gives him a sympathetic frown and takes the bag from him. “Goodbye, Gwaine. Thank you.”

He nods at her, and she turns and starts her long walk out of Camelot. When she’s a good distance away, he calls out, “No kiss goodbye, Princess?”

“Keep dreaming, Gwaine!” is the familiar, teasing response that drifts back to him.

“Not even one for me to keep quiet?”

She turns around and flashes a smile. “Tell who you like. Cassandra won't be coming back.”

X

Gwaine watches Morgana walk off until he loses her in the shadows of nightfall. She doesn't turn back again, but then he doesn't expect her to; she’s not meaning for him to follow her, nor for him to want to. She’s gotten from Camelot whatever she’d come for, and he’s glad to have helped in some small way, to have been privy to that part of her that no one likely sees anymore nor ever will again, the part that’s still bright and cutting, but with wit and beauty instead of malice.

Realising he’s been staring into the distance long enough, he shakes off his reverie and walks back towards the town. His pace is slower than usual, but it seems befitting of the now quiet evening, and he stops before he comes to the abandoned tent. Smiling through a toothpick that’s been in his mouth far too long, he changes direction and walks himself into _The Rising Sun_ for a much needed pint.  

He toasts alone, to no one, before he drinks.


End file.
